Unto Your Safekeeping
by First Blush
Summary: A doctor searching for a cure. A breakthrough that questions everything. Much can be gained in the battle to extend human life, but at what cost? And for Isabella and the man she longs to trust, one question remains: Is success a medical discovery, or is it the discovery of one's true self?
1. Chapter 1

**Readers, it's been a while since my last new story. I thank you for finding your way to this one.**

* * *

**Prologue**

The smooth mahogany conference room table glides beneath my fingers as I pace its border. It's hard and strong, weathered and aged, yet it stands as a testament to the man who commissioned it. It is his marker, his challenge to his sons to fulfill a promise, a legacy engraved both by word and by deed.

IMPROVING THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE THROUGH INNOVATION

The gold leaf inlay marking his credo forms an indelible contrast against the dark wood. Both brilliant and defiant, it is a challenge, daring anyone with the guts to try, to step forward and make their mark on history. I did that. I took my turn. I reached for the brass ring and grabbed hold of it. My journey was no amusement ride. The music sounding in my ears when I reached toward history was not a happy carnival tune, but a steady tattoo as I stood upon a scaffold, ready to take the final step of my life.

I think back to that day, the end of my old life as Dr. Isabella Dwyer. My finger falters as it edges the outline of a perfect "O" in the Cullen family credo. Would I have continued on this path if I'd known the outcome from the beginning? My gaze travels down my skirt, to the pink blush of a scar upon my knee that reveals my answer, my solid truth. The memory of gentle hands, warm, tentative breaths and soft lips upon that wound rushes over me. It guts me like a knife and exposes why I'm here. It engraves the words I must speak upon my tongue so that I may say them to those who'll fill these empty seats within the hour.

I have been a scientist for as long as I can remember, always searching for an answer, always exploring the untraveled path. My life was dedicated to finding a way to bring humanity one-step closer to a more perfect existence. I was not foolish enough to search for immortality, but only the chance to stave off the inevitability of age and decay.

For thirty years, Carlisle, Esme and I lived and breathed that dream. Then on a fateful day last fall I glanced up at bright operating room lights with the knowledge that I must take the final step alone. It would either offer me a future or leave me dangling in thin air with a noose about my neck.

Today I rest heavily in the chair at the head of Eleazar Cullen's table. I will voice my decision; they will hear that noose around my neck was not death but a future without a real life.

My fingers deftly sweep over the lone scar on my knee, thinking of the man who mended it. Because of him, this body is now mine to command. Because of him, my heart is not; it was already his long ago.

* * *

Thanks for reading


	2. Chapter 2

**_To my betas, thank you for making this better._**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The pages of the _Cincinnati Inquirer_ strained and crackled as Isabella shifted them with a frustrated grunt. Between the entertainment and sports sections, nothing sparked the slightest interest in her. Still, she pressed on, stubbornly determined to find something to do. Today was going to be special, she told herself. If not special, then at least different, she conceded. Sunday afternoons were typically spent sprawled on the couch with a stack of preliminary research findings and a cup of hot tea. Somehow she found it easier to spot bias in results when viewing it through the steam trails of Earl Gray.

Unfortunately, research was not allowed to be part of her day and for Isabella the prospect was unnerving. More accurately, it was infuriating to accept that she wasn't _allowed_ to do something.

_At my age, I'm allowed to do whatever the hell I want. I'm in my home, no one is around to watch me, and damn them all if I don't spend the last day I have doing what I do best. _

"_One day, Dr. Dwyer…"_ a quiet voice called out from Isabella's memory. _Just one day to see something from a different perspective," _

"The woman's not even here and she's still driving me nuts!" Isabella swore to no one but the room around her.

That was the sad truth. There was no one else living in the two-bedroom condo; no pets, not even a plant. Not a single living thing would survive if it were depending on Isabella to care for it. She didn't spend more time in her home than necessary. The cleaning lady came in, laundry was sent out, meals were on the go, just the way Isabella liked it.

If, however, Isabella were to try to put things "into perspective"_,_ as recommended by her dear doctor, she would have to admit that from the outside her world seemed pretty small. One could say that, if they were on the outside looking in, but from the viewpoint of Isabella Marie Dwyer, PhD, her life to this point had been one hell of a ride.

A familiar nervous energy bubbled up as Isabella's thoughts turned to her research. Before she knew it, her mind was tracing the clinical relevance of the latest series of test results. She and her team had gone over multiple scenarios and potential outcomes to anticipate—

A loud crack echoed across the room. Isabella's stinging palm was the result of her slamming her hand upon the tabletop to break her train of thought. Today was not about her work.

_It's just one day. I promised her, one day. _

Isabella loathed people who broke their word and refused to let herself to become one of them. With a renewed sense of determination she went back to scanning the entertainment section vowing to find something to do.

If possible, the ruffled headlines looked even less enticing than they had five minutes earlier. The latest movie titles held no interest for her, nor did the suggestions of scandal woven within the typeface. The faces splattered among the print were so young they appeared almost childlike to her. Though admittedly attractive, Isabella couldn't relate to their flamboyance, and therefore had no interest in watching the characters they portrayed. If forced to admit it, the last actor who had sparked anything of interest in her had been Cary Grant, and that had certainly been a long time ago.

More minutes of futile searching passed before Isabella confirmed the obvious. She would not be headed to the movie theater, nor attending any sporting events. With no plan in place, Isabella rose from the table like a rusted out jack-in-the-box. Her face contorted in pain as her body slowly straightened with each turn of the crank. She would not pop out from behind a trap door; she would slowly rise as if her spring had been compressed for far too long to regain its intended posture. There was no one to hide from today, so she breathed deeply as she managed through her pain. Her hip hurt the worst; the flare of painful arthritis as she rose made her curse. At last she was upright, but her groan audibly acknowledged that she'd sat at her table for far too long.

Isabella sighed in relief as the worst of the pain finally subsided. A dubious smile spread across her face. Arthritis was one thing about this body she was certainly _not_ going to miss.

The desire to get out of the house and escape the temptation of more research decided things. With a rye smirk, Isabella reached for her pocketbook and car keys. It was time to keep her promise.

xxxXXXxxx

Though years had passed since her last visit to Wegerzyn Gardens, the park remained exactly as Isabella had remembered. The grounds were a wonderful mix of manicured gardens and large expanses of wild beauty. The true magic of the place was how well the designers paired tamed beauty with a tempestuous natural landscape. The organized lawns were as pleasing to her eye as the rough-hewn, stone wall and weathered bridge outlining more wild terrain. The scene was a near perfect foreshadowing of the proverbial road that lay before her.

Isabella was just about to leave the organized and detailed path of her life behind in search of something new and wild. The adventure was in taking that first step and seeing where it would lead her next. There was no paved route, no comfortable cobblestone to guide her way. Her own foot would set the path. She would blaze the trail and beckon others to follow her.

A low stone fountain took center stage in the park's ornate hedge garden. Isabella traced the edge with her fingertips; the rough pumice dancing along her skin sent a mild shiver down her spine.

Taking a deep breath, Isabella closed her eyes to enjoy the freedom of possibility. With slow and careful steps she followed the curve of the fountain. The sun was bright, turning the back of her eyelids a shade of orange as it warmed her face. Despite the nip in the October air, the scent of roses still wafted in the breeze.

A muffled whine froze Isabella mid circuit. She blinked trying to focus her vision on a line of waving red maples in the distance. The cry sounded a second time, louder and close by. Pivoting in the direction of the call, Isabella saw the dry stacked stone wall but found no one nearby. This time the cry sounded more like a whimper indicating it had come from someone very small.

Isabella looked up the path to the rose garden waiting for someone to appear. Surely a frantic adult would come tearing down it any minute. Seconds passed and no one came into view. Understanding blossomed when signs directing patrons to the scarecrow stuffing flashed in Isabella's mind.

_One of the little ones must have wandered off_.

Seeing she was the only responsible adult in the vicinity, Isabella made her way toward the sniffles coming from the far side of the wall. After rounding the edge of the sloping terrain, Isabella was brought nose to nose with a dark-haired boy of no more than five. His eyes grew wide at the site of a strange woman stooped before him. He shifted away causing his scraped knee to glow red as blood spread across his broken skin. The child's cries grew louder, shaped by a mixture of pain and fear.

Lacking any real experience with children, Isabella ran through her options. The only child she'd interacted with recently was Dr. Whitlock's little girl, Cyndi, to whom she'd offer candy from the crystal dish upon her desk.

She had some hard candy in her purse and briefly considered offering it to the boy, but quickly dismissed the thought. Even Isabella knew no child was supposed to take candy from strangers.

"Come on," Isabella called out to him.

She infused her voice with as much confidence as she could muster without sounding intimidating.

"Your mama won't be able to see you down there. Let's get you up on the ledge. I'll fix up your knee and then we'll go and find her, okay?"

The boy's sniffling quieted and Isabella could see he was unsure about trusting her. She offered a hand to help him up.

"Come on," she tried again. "You'll be able to see her from up here."

He sniffled once more, wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his shirt, but otherwise obeyed. Before too long he was sitting atop the low wall and positioned before her. His scraped knee was dripping blood down his peachy, white skin toward his sock. The sight of the broken skin set him wailing and produced a fresh round of tears.

"It's okay. We're going to fix it," Isabella promised as she began hastily rooting around in her pocketbook.

Like a strange dichotomy from the rest of her neatly organized life, Isabella's purse was a tornado of disorganization. She had to pull out an umbrella, a wallet, car keys, a comb, dental floss, and a cassette tape of Johnny Mathis before she finally found what she was after. The desire to shout eureka nearly overtook her when she finally pulled a tiny fabric bag containing tissues and bandages from the far recesses of her black hole.

The boy saw the bandages and eyed Isabella skeptically.

"Do you have any Sponge Bob ones?" he asked.

Isabella had absolutely no idea what the boy was talking about thus making her certain she had no sponges or Bob anything. Changing tack, she decided to play to his imagination instead.

"No, but I have a magic butterfly inside my purse. He can fix your knee but you have to make me a promise before I let him out."

The boy scrutinized the large stack of items on the wall beside Isabella. His appeared to be weighing her words before finally looking up at her with his big curious eyes. He nodded, guessing there was at least a decent possibility of a magic butterfly being encased within her large bag.

"My butterfly will help you but he's shy. You need to keep your eyes closed while he fixes your knee," Isabella whispered. "If you look, he'll fly away and I need him to stay with me. You see, he helps me too. Do you think you could do that?"

The boy nodded again, his eyes as wide as saucers. Isabella couldn't help but smirk a bit as she attempted to smile reassuringly.

"First, he's going to use his wing to wipe your knee, next he'll blow you a kiss to make it stop hurting. Then he'll take the bandage with his little feet and put it over your scrape. You'll be right as rain when he's done. Are you ready?"

She heard the boy mumble something close to "Uh-huh."

"Okay," she soothed. "You close your eyes and I'll let him out."

Once the tiny blue eyes disappeared behind his lash-framed lids, Isabella scrambled to take a tissue from her pack.

"Okay Harry," Isabella called conspiratorially. "Please come out. I have a job for you."

She made a muffled noise from inside her purse ensuring the lad knew Harry had crawled out from the recesses of her bag.

"It's okay, Harry," Isabella said to her imaginary butterfly. "He promised not to look. If you'll be so good as to use your wing…"

There wasn't a lot of dirt around the boy's wound and although Isabella preferred to use some sort of antiseptic to clean his scrape, she didn't have any. She'd also promised that Harry would be gentle, so she wiped the blood as gently she could.

"Good Harry, now blow your kiss to make it stop hurting."

Isabella filled her lungs with the rose scented air around her and blew a slow, cooling breeze upon the reddened flesh. The moment she ran out of air she placed the bandage across the scrape and danced her fingernails lightly over the tape, making it seem as though Harry's little legs were patting it into place.

"Thank you, Harry," she said once more ruffling the contents of her purse to mimic the sound of Harry's departure.

"Is he gone?" the little boy asked.

Isabella was about to give her answer when she heard a frantic cry. It was the unmistakable half angry, half scared out of her mind, mother's cry.

"ALEX, AL-EX! WHERE ARE YOU?"

"Mama!" the little boy cried in response.

Alex scrambled off the wall and ran in the direction of his mother. When he reached her, he wrapped his little arms tightly about her legs. The petite woman swooped down to pick up her boy and cradled him tightly. Relief spilled over the woman's lovely features.

"Mama, she has a magic butterfly. He fixed my boo-boo," Alex said proudly showing off his bandaged knee.

"Alex was very brave," Isabella added before the mother could make a run for the nearest park ranger. "He had a little scrape when he fell off the wall but it's all fixed now. You might want to clean it with soap and water when you get home. My magic butterfly doesn't have any on hand at the moment."

The mother caught on quickly. She smiled widely at her son then played along.

"Wow, Alex. You were really lucky to have a magic butterfly hanging around, but next time don't go wandering off alone; it scares me."

"Yes mama," Alex replied looking appropriately chastised.

"Thank you," Alex's mother told Isabella sincerely. "You're really great with children. I bet your grandchildren really love your magic butterfly."

Isabella was about to tell her that she didn't have any when Alex left his mother's side and took off after a fleeing squirrel.

"Alex!" the mother screamed as she took off after him. She turned back to Isabella and smiled apologetically before joining the chase.

Isabella waved them both farewell, feeling happy at first, then surprisingly, a little sad. She hadn't thought of Harry the butterfly since she was Alex's size. Her father had called on Harry the magic butterfly whenever she'd had a scrape.

_It's amazing what the mind can recall in a moment of need, _Isabella mused as she made her way back to the wall and her upended purse.

She smiled at the familiar clattering from her purse as the pile of unnecessary necessities shifted from within.

"Come on Harry," Isabella sang as she shoved her hodgepodge of items back into the black hole. "You've done enough rescuing for one day."

Isabella's heart skipped a beat as, for the first time, thoughts of her impending surgery filled her with unease. Looking down at the bag holding the cacophony of her life, Isabella hoped Harry had a bit magic left—for her.

xxxXXXxxx

Supper was take-out Chinese from Isabella's favorite restaurant. She'd barely shut the door on the delivery boy before the scent of Kung Pao shrimp began making her mouth water like one of Pavlov's dogs. The TV remote clattered on the tiny kitchen table as Isabella set off to find a nice glass of Merlot and a plate. A news program filled the room with background noise while she opened the wine. A few minutes later, after saying grace, Isabella picked up her glass and toasted her imaginary dining partner.

"Kiss my ass, Dr. Newton," she jeered. "My test results are out, and copious amounts of salt and alcohol are about to go in."

She smiled in anticipation as she brought the crystal glass to rest against her lower lip. It was solid, though delicate and smooth; the perfect contrast to the formless flowing wine. It tingled on the tip of her tongue then finished with a dry aftertaste that lingered long after it made its way down her throat. The dry sensation lasted like a lingering kiss in her mouth; warm, wet, and welcomed.

Setting down the glass, Isabella raised her fork. The first bite of tangy heaven was about to pass her lips when Morley Safer's voice drew her out of her hunger induced tunnel vision.

"…_regenerative medicine, where cells in the human body are manipulated into re-growing tissue."_

Startled by the news, Isabella's fork slipped from her fingers and clattered to the plate. The sharp noise prevented her from hearing more of the story lead in. Isabella shook her head at the irony of _this_ being tonight's topic before straining to hear more of the broadcast.

"…_Biotech companies and the Pentagon have invested hundreds of millions in research that can profoundly change millions of lives."_

Isabella, stunned into silence, gazed, disbelievingly at her colleagues being interviewed. Their research had taken a different path than Isabella's but in the end, they were all focused on the same goal: increased longevity and improved quality of life.

A small flame of jealousy began to burn in Isabella's chest. Her research was not among those being touted on a national news program. Although there were a lot of good reasons to keep her project as close to the vest as possible, it didn't ease the part of her that longed to be recognized. A part of her was still that small, uncoordinated girl on the playground, that young brainy girl in science class, that solitary female in a lab full of men. Each one of them cried out inside her head…_look at me, I'm here too_.

This was the path they'd chosen. It was the right choice for her research and for her personally, Isabella reminded herself. Thus she remained seated at her table, forcing herself to enjoy her wine and her meal. The trouble was, Isabella wasn't very good at ignoring the obvious, and the obvious was that being noticeably absent from the program stuck in her craw like a chicken bone. Isabella swallowed a large mouthful of wine consoling herself with the knowledge that her day was about to come.

xxxXXXxxx

It was almost nine when Isabella finally put the last of the leftovers in the kitchen. The phone rang not thirty seconds after she'd settled on one of the plush, flower cushions. Flush with wine, a sore hip and pent-up irritation; it took Isabella three rings to get to her phone.

_Damn hip._

She didn't bother saying hello, she already knew the identity of the person on the other end of the line.

"Good evening," Alice Whitlock's voice greeted over the phone line_._

Isabella met Dr. Alice Whitlock at a continuing medical education conference in 2007. Alice was presenting her study on the impact of positive mental preparation on medical treatment. As luck would have it, the women had been seated next to one another at a dreadfully dull post conference dinner. They bonded over a few laughs at the expense of the evening's egotistical MC. Despite the nearly forty-year age difference between them, they found solidarity in their common distaste for self-importance.

Six years later, when the Mii board made the decision to enter the final stage of the project, Alice was invited to join the team's clinical review board. More specifically, she was asked to function as the consulting psychologist for the project's initial human study. As a condition of her acceptance, Alice requested weekly sessions with Isabella. Having neither the inclination nor the time to go to a psychologist's office, no matter how congenial the visit, Isabella declined the invitation.

Alice Whitlock was not one to be dissuaded. A week later, she announced that they would hold evening sessions via telephone so as to meet the constraints of Isabella's hectic schedule. Left with few excuses and fewer alternatives, Isabella reluctantly agreed.

"Dr. Whitlock, how did I know you were going to call me?" Isabella gritted acerbically, clenching her teeth to mask the pain in her hip. Though their conversation would eventually lapse into more friendly terms, Isabella always started each session formally.

"Because I said I would, Bella," replied the good doctor matter-of-factly.

At the sound of being addressed by her childhood nickname, Isabella's mildly sour mood took a nosedive. The combination of the informal nickname, the news program, and her aching hip, gave Isabella a very tenuous hold on her civility. Layered beneath her simmering frustration was her added irritation of being kept from her work for a day.

"Dr. Whitlock, I thought we agreed that I would be referred to either as Isabella or Dr. Dwyer. Since your calls are later in the evening and away from the office, Isabella will be fine."

"Yes," Alice replied in a very calm, professional tone. "But _Bella_ will be your new persona very shortly. Don't you think it's best you get comfortable hearing yourself be called by that name before it becomes necessary?"

"No," Isabella answered coldly.

Alice really didn't deserve her ire, but Isabella had worked damn hard to earn her title. She was not about to give it up any sooner than absolutely necessary.

"Can we explore that?"

Isabella gritted her teeth at the request. At times like this when Alice questioned the obvious, Isabella felt like pounding her head against her Frigidare.

"Dr. Whitlock," Isabella sighed, trying to regain her composure. "We've had _this _conversation as well. I am Dr. Isabella Dwyer. That is my preferred name. I know what will be expected of me after the procedure and I am fully prepared to do what is necessary to make this project a success. Believe me, adapting a new name is the very least of my worries."

"I couldn't disagree more, Isabella."

An evil smile graced Isabella's wrinkled cheeks. She couldn't help it; _she'd won_.

As if Alice could sense Isabella's silent celebration, she hastened to make her point.

"Are you concerned that being referred to as Bella will remove your authority?"

Again, Isabella sighed.

"It will, Alice, you know it will. As of Tuesday morning, I will relinquish control of the project to others. It will no longer be under my direction."

"You mean it will no longer be under your direct control. The prospect is frightening to you, isn't it? The whole notion of giving up control sets you on edge."

"After fifty years of dedication, _hell yes_."

"I don't mean about the daily control of the research, the facts, the figures, the analysis, Isabella. What you are about to undergo on Tuesday will take away all of your direct control. Choices will be made for you, and on your behalf. That is frightening."

The words left Alice's mouth in such a matter of fact tone, that Isabella was left without a response. This had been the plan all along and now that they were down to the eve of their venture, Isabella was practically paralyzed by those words.

"Yes." It was the only word Isabella had the strength to say.

"Good," Alice answered quietly.

"Good?" Isabella asked incredulously. "You get me to admit that I'm terrified of handing over control to someone else and all you can say is _good?"_

Isabella hadn't felt this frustrated in years. She prided herself for maintaining control over her emotions, but the anger that suddenly erupted seemed to quell the knots growing in her stomach.

"Yes good, because now that we know, we can do something about it."

"Alice, forgive my bluntness but we're well beyond the point of no return to have this discussion. The plans are set. I've worked too long and too hard for this day to abort unnecessarily."

"Unnecessarily? Are you saying you don't have a right to call it off because of fear? Forgive _me_ for being blunt, Isabella, but that is absolute bullshit. This is your life. You decide what happens to you, no one else on this project. Not the Cullens, not doctor Newton, not me, _you_. That is yours to control."

"I want to go through with it, Alice."

Alice's exhale of relief was nearly palatable.

"Okay, why?" she asked quietly.

"Why?" Isabella asked shaking her head. There were too many reasons to put them all into one simple statement. "Alice, even if we discount my years of dedication to this research and the potential benefits of the project to the practice of medicine, there's the excitement, the thrill of doing something never done before and the added knowledge that what we're doing may one day help someone else. Those are the reasons I went into the medical research field in the first place. You're asking why I want to go through with it? It's because if we're successful, there may never have to be another Noah, there may never have to be another set of grieving parents like the Cullens. But the biggest reason of all is because if we never try, we will never know how far we can go."

"Are you saying that just because science can do this, _we should?_"

Isabella ignored the larger moral question and focused on herself.

"I'm saying that _I'm_ ready, Alice. We'll have to wait for the outcome on Wednesday morning before we can truly discuss the future."

"Touché, Dr. Dwyer."

Silence echoed across the line. Isabella's thoughts drifted to the wonders of theory made reality by a surgeon's scalpel.

"I still sense that we haven't resolved your concerns over relinquishing control."

"I don't see how it's possible to avoid it," Isabella answered with a quiet sigh.

"Tell me specific concerns and we'll address them."

There was another reason behind Alice's request and Isabella didn't have to be a scientist to sense it. Alice had been named as Isabella's medical power of attorney twelve months earlier.

"I'm not afraid of dying."

It was the truth. Isabella was not afraid of dying. Not that she didn't want to live and do more if given the opportunity, but she didn't feel as though she was being cut down in the prime of her life either.

Alice was quiet on the other end of the line and Isabella had been through enough sessions to know that Alice expected her to continue.

"I'm afraid of only half living."

"What do you want from _me_, Isabella?"

Isabella's response was both swift and sincere. "Listen to Newton. He wants success out of this program as much as anybody, perhaps even more. But if he tells you…if he shows you that the procedure didn't work, let me go."

The echoing silence wasn't stiffing; for Isabella it actually felt freeing.

"I'll respect your decision. It's yours to control."

Isabella heard resignation in Alice's voice. Deep down she knew Alice disagreed, but Isabella also knew Alice would honor her wishes. Isabella wanted control and Alice was giving it back the only way she knew how. The best thing she could give Isabella now was peace of mind.

"Thank you, Alice."

"You're welcome…_Bella._"

The click on the other end of the line signaled that Alice was gone long before Isabella could open her mouth to reply.

_The little shit._

A chagrined smile crept across Isabella's face as she laid down the receiver. She knew better than to be upset. Alice's parting words had been ones of hope. The only reason Alice would call her by her childhood nickname was if she truly believed Isabella needed to accept that it was about to change. That change was predicated by one thing…_life_.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. If you have questions, ask away..._

_If you've read my other stories, you know I'm big into research. This is the link to the 60 Minutes segment mentioned in the story: (remove spaces)_

www . cbsnews video / watch / ?id= 6711905n&tag = mncol ; lst ; 1


	3. Chapter 3

**To my betas, thanks for making this better.**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Furious footfalls echoed in the distance as Isabella stepped into the bright glare of Cullen Group International's main hall. As the heavy security door slowly closed behind her, a familiar series of beeps signified that the locks were resetting. As usual, Isabella wasn't focused on the locks; she was doggedly concentrating on getting her damn security card back into the lanyard. The tiniest tremor in her arthritic hands always prevented her from sliding the badge back into its narrow holder, which infuriated her to no end. Today was no different. The only thing tempering her frustration as she struggled was the thought of how easy this task would be after her surgery.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the plastic badge found its way home. Isabella would have let out a cheer had her triumph not been interrupted by the clip-clop of high heels coming to a stop right behind her.

"Dr. Dwyer," an excited, female voice called between breathy gasps.

Turning to look, Isabella spotted her assistant, Angela Webber, smiling as she struggled to catch her breath. She held a cup of coffee in one hand, a napkin-wrapped goody in the other and tucked under her arm were three brightly colored folders.

"I'm so sorry I'm late, Dr. Dwyer. Here's your coffee."

Isabella nearly rolled her eyes but stopped seeing Angela's worried expression and chose to smile reassuringly instead. The girl was going to earn a set of early wrinkles if she didn't learn to give herself a break. They were mere seconds behind schedule and even that was a rare occurrence for her steadfast assistant.

Without hesitation Isabella greedily accepted the steaming cup Angela held out to her. She reveled in the heavenly aroma as she pulled the cup toward her lips. There was nothing better than first taste of morning coffee. The hot liquid slid down her throat, warming from the inside out, radiating down her chest all the way to the pit of her stomach. She let out a contented sigh, her entire body relaxing as a rapturous smile crossed her lips. Isabella tilted back the cup for another swallow when she spied the second delight of the morning, a powdered jelly doughnut.

"Angela, you are a godsend," Isabella said reverently. "That doughnut is a sight for sore eyes."

Angela beamed under her superior's praise.

"I just know what you like, Dr. Dwyer, and I remembered you said that the diet you needed to be on for your lab work was ending on Friday."

"And thank God for that." Isabella grinned.

"Well, I'm glad that I can make at least this part of your day start off right," Angela sighed, shaking her head. "I've had to do a bit of juggling with your schedule."

Angela handed the blue folder to Isabella then flipped open her own red one. The smile, which had been stretching across Isabella's face, slid to a frown knowing the happy start to her morning was predictably too good to be true.

"We have a visitor from the FDA requesting an audit under the BIMO provision. His name is Charles Swan. I've given him the programmatic files he was permitted to review. He's waiting for you in conference room B."

Isabella, feeling her face and hands go numb with the news of an auditor, could only nod. BIMO was the Food and Drug Administration's Bio Research Monitoring group. Their auditors conducted on-site inspections and had the authority to review, evaluate and, if necessary, recommend termination of a clinical study.

No, an audit was certainly not what Isabella wanted to face today, but she'd have to manage. Fortunately for her, Angela was not only a consummate professional but also incredibly calm and collected under pressure. The preliminary paperwork would keep the auditor entrenched until Isabella could devise her plan of action. She was doubly grateful Angela picked conference room B, the one with the round conference table. In that room, no one would have perceived authority. She liked using that one when facing an unknown enemy.

"I put two hours on the schedule for his audit," Angela announced. "If that's not enough time, we'll make another change or have him come back to meet with Dr. Newton on Wednesday. I pushed back Mr. Alistair to ten o'clock in conference room H on the second floor. I called his office to confirm the time change and followed up with messages to his office and cell phone. Then I've moved your daily data review from ten to eleven-thirty. Your lunch is from eleven thirty to twelve-thirty, which leaves you with a half an hour to make it to MCG for the board meeting at one. Does that sound acceptable?"

Isabella, still distracted by the irony of an impromptu FDA visitor, furrowed her brow. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Angela reaching for a pencil to make on-the-spot changes but Isabella waved her off, closing the folder to signal she'd accepted the schedule. Angela, looking relieved, tucked the red folder back under her arm and presented the final one to Isabella—this one was green.

"I didn't know which airline your granddaughter was coming in on but here's the number for the Cincinnati Airport's arrival phone line as well as the numbers for the major airlines. Are you sure you don't want me to call to check on her flights?"

Again, Isabella waved a hand in dismissal, still wondering why she'd been cursed with a BIMO audit today of all days.

"You have my number in your cell. Call me if you need anything, of course, but I hope you have a great time with her. Maybe bring in some pictures?" Angela's voice trilled up at the end to accentuate the hope in her voice.

Angela's request, although innocent, exposed one of Isabella's loose ends. She didn't have any pictures on her desk. Not a single one to suggest she was a grandmother or had any family at all.

"Oh, you know me, Angela, I can't stay away from this place for too long," she said trying to turn the subject from photographs Angela was never going to see.

"I'm sure you'll have fun. I'd love to meet her in person but I hope she doesn't let you drag her in here on your vacation. Who knows when she'd be able to drag you back out?"

Isabella laughed but she really shouldn't have found Angela's comment humorous. If anything it was more sad than funny.

Like the photographs, Angela was another of Isabella's loose ends. She'd planned to spend a few minutes one on one with her before leaving on _vacation_, but it didn't appear as though her new schedule was going to afford her that luxury. Realizing what a wrench the audit was throwing in her plans, Isabella did something she'd never done before.

"Angela, would you like to join me for lunch today?"

Stunned silent, Angela stared longer than socially acceptable before finally coming to her senses.

"Y—yes," she stammered recovering herself. "I'd love to join you, Dr. Dwyer."

"Perfect. How about we meet at Coco's on Wayne Avenue?"

Angela nodded numbly, still appearing shocked by her first lunch invitation with Isabella after having worked for her for more than two years. Isabella smiled kindly then turned in the direction of the conference room. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, Isabella preparing to do battle with the FDA's newest dragon.

The FDA's dragon appeared in the form of a forty-five year old man with salt and pepper fringe framing his temples. He rose from his chair as Isabella entered the room, practically snapping to attention. The jarring action made Isabella wonder if he'd been compelled by engrained conditioning to respond like that without conscious thought.

"Mr. Swan," Isabella announced with an outstretched hand. "Welcome."

Isabella always shook with a firm hand; today was no different. Staring Swan in the eye to size up her dragon, she decided it would be best to take control of the meeting from the get-go.

The corner of Swan's eye twitched as he accepted Isabella's outstretched hand. He appeared a formidable opponent, picture perfect in a starched blue shirt, monochrome tie and navy pinstripe suit. An athletic build and a closely shaved haircut accentuated Swan's chosen suit of armor. Isabella looked him up and down thoughtfully. His appearance strongly suggested former military service. After releasing Swan's hand, Isabella pulled back a chair and took a seat. She smiled sweetly, clasping her hands together on her side of the table while Swan sat stiffly on his. Simmering just beneath the polite demeanor, Isabella could feel the battle lines being drawn.

Looking down at the conference room table Isabella noticed that not one paper in the stack of folders beside Swan was out of place. The only suggestion that they'd been reviewed came from a non-descript black leather notepad and a mechanical pencil lying beside the stack.

_Definitely former military,_ Isabella thought.

Her hopes for a quick conversation and a cheery goodbye vanished like a coal briquette in a hot furnace.

"Thank you, Dr. Dwyer," Swan answered stiffly, "but I prefer to be called _Agent _Swan."

Though surprised by the odd request, Isabella did her best not to show it.

"A federal agent", Isabella nodded solemnly. The FDA typically sent Investigators to review her research, not federal agents. "If I might ask, what convinced you to join the FDA?"

"Personal reasons," was the agent's terse reply. From the tight-lipped expression Swan wore Isabella could tell he'd say no more.

Swan didn't let the uncomfortable silence last long, jumping right into his interrogation.

"Dr. Dwyer, your program is one of many assignments in my caseload. This meeting is to formally introduce myself as your new program evaluator. I have read your program charter and have reviewed both the recommendations from your last IRB and your informed consent documentation."

A crinkle formed at the corner of Isabella's right eye. It was her "tell", appearing whenever her suspicions were piqued. She wondered what the agent was playing at. The program's last Institutional Review Board (IRB) evaluation was flawless. There were no _recommendations_.

"There is a curious paragraph in your signed consent form," the agent continued without moving his eyes from Isabella's face. "It states that if you, the study's clinical investigator, were to leave to leave the program, all donated human biological material would be destroyed. This appears to be rather drastic, even for an anonymous donor. Then again, perhaps it's a testament to their confidence in you. What do you say, Dr. Dwyer?"

"Since it's to my advantage to do so, I'd say thank you for the vote of confidence."

Swan smirked.

_Well, at least he isn't made of stone._

"Did it surprise or worry you to have an anonymous donor request such a condition?"

Isabella knew needed to tread carefully, but didn't change her posture or break eye contact with the agent.

"I'd say it's prudent. Though the study guidelines are quite clear, changing the clinical investigator could result in changes to the program that the donor may not approve of. The clause offers protection by ensuring that their donated cells won't be studied or treated beyond the donor's intended use."

"Couldn't they ask the donor for permission?"

Isabella couldn't tell if Swan was being purposefully obtuse. It took more effort than she wanted to admit to remove the bubbling frustration from her voice before she answered.

"I would assume you know that consent forms are signed by a legal representative if the donor wishes to remain anonymous. Therefore it may not be feasible to contact the donor in the event of a change. As you can see, the donation was made back in 1987 and not everyone is fortunate to remain in legal practice or still be alive after a span of more than twenty-five years. Again, I imagine the clause is intended to provide maximum protection to the donor. Of course, CGI would make every effort to contact the donor should it become necessary."

"Of course," Swan agreed. He nodded his head in agreement but made no other sign of accepting this explanation. "I have to admit, Dr. Dwyer, that after reading the clinical summary, I still really can't comprehend the nature of your work here."

Masking her unease as careful consideration of the question, Isabella resigned herself to describing the study to the layman. At least this would offer an opportunity to observe the reaction of someone completely outside the program.

"Place your arm on the table with your palm facing down and relax your hand," Isabella instructed.

Swan hesitated, eyeing her suspiciously, before placing his arm on the table. Isabella reached out to touch him. She'd only lifted her hand from the table when Swan quickly drew his back. Swan looked as though he'd somehow been burned, making Isabella freeze with her hand in midair.

"It's okay, Agent Swan, I don't bite."

Isabella punctuated her words with a mischievous grin, but the agent didn't seem to share her sense of humor. Slowly, tentatively, Swan moved his arm back to the table and allowed her hand to fall gently atop his.

"The basis of the study is quite simple," Isabella began as she gently pinched the skin on the back of his hand just over the knuckles.

Isabella held the skin taut for a moment then released it. Though it remained tented at first, the release of her fingers allowed the agent's skin to seep back into position like hot fudge melting over ice cream. Isabella then pinched of the same patch of skin on the back of her own hand. Again, she held it taut for a moment then released it. Unlike the agent's skin, Isabella's seemed to hold the shape of a folded piece of paper for several seconds, before easing back into place.

"We all have a shell, Agent Swan," she said motioning from the back of his hand to hers. "Each shell weathers and ages over time. Eventually the shell will degrade, allowing a greater opportunity for injury, illness or disease to invade the body. The goal of this study is to extend the duration of human life, but more importantly we want to improve the quality of that life by replacing the part that degrades the fastest."

Swan watched her intently as she spoke. When she finished, his eyes moved from her face to the stacks of files on the conference table and back. It looked as if he were trying to decide if her simple explanation matched the technically complex one he'd found in the documentation. His intense gaze made the skin prickle on the back of Isabella's neck. After a long moment Swan abruptly pulled back his hand, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

"I'd like a tour of your facility," he said authoritatively.

Isabella was not one to be ordered around, especially not in her lab.

"I'd be happy to show you to the _viewing_ areas of our sterilization rooms," she answered, prevaricating.

The pair meandered through the facility, stopping when necessary to address questions about the phase of the project. Their final stop was the observation window of the Mii laboratory. The glass separated viewers from the fragile vessel Isabella and her team had been growing for the last twenty-five years. Years ago, in the early stages of the growth phase, they had lost two vassals to bacterial viruses. Shortly thereafter Isabella instituted strict sterilization procedures to prevent a third costly and time consuming mishap. Isabella wouldn't take Swan into the lab partly because of these procedures and partly because she didn't trust the man further than she could throw him. Given her arthritic hip, that wasn't very far at all.

"What are they doing?" the agent asked as he peered through the glass.

The Mii was surrounded by machines, making the scene look more ominous than it really was.

"They're forcing air into the brachial tubes to increase the respiratory rate," Isabella replied instructionally. "Think of it as virtual exercise while the body remains at rest."

Swan nodded, pulling himself away from the window and turning in the direction of the lobby. Apparently he'd had enough for one day, much to Isabella's relief. She walked the agent back to the security door where Angela was waiting to accept his temporary visitor badge.

"Thank you for your help, Dr. Dwyer," Swan said curtly. "I'll be in touch next week if I have follow-up questions."

"If you have questions next week, please direct them to Ms. Webber," Isabella said, motioning toward her assistant. "If they can wait a week, I'll be back in the office on the twenty-second."

"What if there's a question beyond the capabilities of Ms. Webber? No disrespect," he added with eyebrows hefted in the assistant's direction.

"None taken," Angela replied cheerily.

"I'm sure you'll find Ms. Webber quite capable of directing your questions to the appropriate member of the team, collecting the response, and providing it back to you."

"Thank you, Dr. Dwyer," Angela preened. "We'll do our best to muddle through while you're on vacation."

"Going far?" Swan asked, sounding more interested than necessary considering how casual the question should have been.

Though her expression betrayed nothing, Isabella was more than a little wary of the man. She couldn't put her finger on why, save for an uncomfortable feeling that with this agent, nothing was what it seemed.

"No, I'm staying local. I have family coming for a visit."

_There, _she thought, _truthful, simple, but without detail._

With a final nod, Swan turned to make his leave.

"Thank you again, doctor and—" he paused, glancing once more at the three-story lobby surrounding him. "I'm sure we'll be in touch."

As she watched him slide through the lobby's revolving door, a mental sigh of relief went through Isabella like rainwater through a gutter.

"I'm sure we won't," she muttered gratefully_._

Ten minutes later, after acquiescing to several less than subtle glances Angela was making at her watch, Isabella stood before the door of conference room H. She was winded after doing battle with a dragon but knew her morning was far from over. Her skin crawled just thinking about Alistair Drake and the unpleasantness that waited behind the door.

_Out of the dragon's lair, and into the viper's pit._

* * *

******FYI...My Biology teacher actually did that skin test with my class back in 9th grade.**

**BIMO = Bioresearch Monitoring Program sponsored by the Food and Drug Administration (FDA)**

**Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think. - FB**


	4. Chapter 4

**To my betas, thanks for making this better.**

**A/N: Though I wouldn't consider this a science fiction story, Isabella's work is certainly futuristic. This is one of the few chapters with sci-fi vibe.**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

If Charles Swan's most dominant attribute was his military experience, Alistair Drake's was his money. A man in his mid-fifties, Alistair took his professional appearance to a level that teetered on gaudy. His gray hair was brushed back and glued in place, making him look like a flabbier version of the former Laker's basketball coach, Pat Riley. Alistair made frequent comments about his three-hundred-dollar ties and thousand-dollar dress shoes; Isabella often wondered if his suits cost more than the project's data server. All the extravagance served to demonstrate one thing: Alistair Drake appreciated the power of money.

Alistair had amassed his wealth in the late eighties, slurping up the seconds of lawsuits lost by the cigarette manufacturers. Once the bigger firms had won the major class actions, Alistair had sought out clients that didn't quite fit the class but had enough commonality with the plaintiffs' cases to warrant a settlement. As the lone attorney in a private firm, he'd earned a sizeable fortune and had the profits all to himself.

"Mr. Alistair," Isabella called out as she pulled open the conference room door.

Alistair stood and smoothed over the folds in his jacket, preening himself, before extending his hand to Isabella. The pretense made Isabella bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smirking. Alistair could always be counted on to put his image before anything else. A charitable description would be to call Mr. Drake opportunistic. An honest one would liken him to a snake oil salesman.

"Dr. Dwyer, so good to see you."

Isabella nodded and sat, with Alistair following suit. He lifted a fine Italian leather briefcase onto the table and snapped open the brass locks.

"I have reviewed your will, Dr. Preston, as originally drafted by your former attorney, Jason Jenks. Everything appears to be in order. As the beneficiary of your estate, your granddaughter will have a very comfortable life," Alistair added with a coy wink.

"You should know I cancelled my life insurance last week," Isabella said without preamble. She had no desire to spend her time in here with Alistair when she had more important things to do. "I know we talked about donating the settlement to the Parks District as per the instructions outlined in my will, but it's still money that they'd be getting illegally. I don't plan on dying, and there's enough in the estate to cover the burial costs even if I did."

Alistair shrugged, displaying his indifference. A hundred thousand dollar donation would certainly be of little consequence to him. He placed her will back into its folder and produced a second document. It was a copy of the addendum to Isabella's signed consent form.

"I want to be _sure_ you want this executed upon your death. It's binding. All of your biomedical material will be destroyed. Are you certain you want that to happen?"

"Yes," Isabella answered firmly. "One extra ride on the merry-go-round will be more than enough for me."

He seemed to smile warily at her joke then tucked the paper back into its folder.

"Did you bring your keys?"

Isabella nodded and reached into her pocket to produce her key ring. It was an ordinary ring, holding the keys to her car, house, and office filing cabinets. The final key was to an old family cabin outside of Bloomington.

The silver script letter I key fob glinted in the fluorescent light, sending a chill down her spine. An unnerving feeling of vulnerability overtook her as she debated handing the symbols of her life to Alistair. Isabella took a settling breath then firmly placed the keys in Alistair's outstretched hand. She closed her fist over the unnaturally cold feeling created by their absence. It was something she'd have to get used to, she reminded herself, clenching and unclenching her fist. She would be handing over a lot of things in the upcoming days.

"You have a spare set with you, correct?" Alistair asked.

"Yes."

"You'll stop the car here," Alistair said, pointing to a map on his cell phone that matched a quiet stretch of State Route 42. "Things are timed very closely, so don't be late."

"I understand."

"Well, then we're done here, Dr. Dwyer," Alistair said, rising to his feet. "I'll see you at MCG this afternoon."

Isabella nearly jerked back as Alistair placed a light hand on her shoulder. He offered a weak smile, oblivious to the way he made her skin crawl.

"I may not get the chance to talk to you one-on-one at the board meeting, so I wanted to let you know now how brave I think you are, Dr. Dwyer. Most of all, I want to wish you good luck."

A pang of guilt made Isabella grimace as she tried to smile back. What may have appeared as worry about the procedure was actually shame for thinking so poorly of the man.

"Thank you," Isabella said softly and meant it.

She stood and watched the first of many people she would tell goodbye leave the room.

xxxxxxxxx

Isabella poured over the results of the morning's simulation with a grim expression. The Mii's respiration, heart rate, oxygen levels, skin color, and sweat production were all within established norms, and yet something seemed off. She couldn't put her finger on it, nor could she dismiss the uneasy feeling in her gut. Isabella was a woman who always trusted her instincts, and she wasn't about to abandon them now.

Determined to puzzle it out, Isabella carefully examined each data point, half-hoping to find an error, half-hoping everything was as perfect as it seemed. The longer she stared at the results, the more uncomfortable she became. If the data didn't explain the anomaly, she'd explain it herself. Tossing the data sheet on a waist-high counter, Isabella began the sterilization protocol she had established twenty-five years ago.

It took fifteen minutes to complete the sterilization process before entering the lab. Despite the bright lights and the pervasive scent of commercial cleaners, Isabella felt more at home in this room than any other. It was orderly. It was regulated by protocol and conformed to her directive. In this room, she had control, and that gave her confidence. In this room, Isabella knew her place in the world.

Moving further into the room, Isabella saw a lab tech swapping an empty IV bag for a full one. A clear fluid flowed through various intravenous lines and into Mii. As described in the daily log, the program's surgeon, Dr. Newton, had prescribed a round of antibiotics in preparation for the upcoming surgery. Noticing Isabella's presence, the lab tech nodded from beneath her mask, then left through the air-locked door. Isabella glanced at the clock and sighed. It was nearly elven; the second shift would begin momentarily.

Solitude was a rarity in the lab, and Isabella was going to make full use of it. She looked over Mii from top to bottom, using tactile and visual evidence to confirm what she'd read in the lab reports. It was difficult to say if she was more pleased or upset that everything appeared as reported.

For the first time, Isabella allowed herself to consider the Mii with something other than professional distance.

"A shell to protect the inhabitant from external threats," she whispered.

That was how she'd described the Mii to Swan, but there was more to it.

"A vessel fashioned to hold something precious," she added as she traced the pale, white fingers.

Once more, Isabella looked over the machines. A part of her willed them to make the decision for her. They wouldn't—the choice was hers and hers alone. Straightening up and squaring her shoulders, Isabella spoke to no one other than her own racing heart.

"I pray our attempt to mimic Adam's rib will be equally as successful."

Her decision made, Isabella left the lab without a backward glance. She only paused on the far side of the chamber door to hear the chime of the locks. They were familiar and comforting, another outward sign of her control. Slowly, Isabella pulled off her gloves and mask, wondering how she would handle a life without control. Unease wormed its way down her spine. She shivered and began to wonder, if like Adam, she too would find a serpent in her story.

xxxxxxxxx

"This is delicious," Angela hummed over her turkey and bleu sandwich. "I'll have to tell Ben about this place."

"How's school?" Isabella asked, ignoring Angela's comment about her meal and coming right to the point.

Noticing Angela's wide-eyed expression, Isabella felt a twinge of guilt at being so abrupt. It was a byproduct of her age and position not to beat around the bush.

"It's fine," Angela half-laughed, half-sighed. "It's a bit of a strain balancing Mikey and homework. Ben helps when he can."

Isabella hummed in response, taking note of Angela's naked ring finger.

At twenty-three, Angela had a young son with an absentee father. Working at Cullen Group International, or CGI as it was more commonly known, was an opportunity for her to advance from an otherwise minimum-wage existence. She'd worked for Isabella for two years and was extremely bright, but that was only part of the reason Isabella had taken the girl under her wing. Angela was the kind of person who was grateful for every opportunity, and even with the challenges of being a single mom while earning her degree, Angela was managing it without complaint. Isabella would have felt responsible for Angela even without knowing there was a child depending on her income. Adding Mikey into the mix only firmed her resolve to ensure there was no possibility of Angela losing her job after she was gone.

"But you're balancing okay with work. You still enjoy it?"

Angela appeared puzzled by Isabella's question and took a long pause before answering.

"Yes, Dr. Dwyer, I love my job and I love working for you. Is something wrong? Do you feel my work is slipping?" The crumpled napkin twisting in Angela's fingers signaled her anxiety.

"No, no," Isabella said, waving a hand to dismiss the thought. "Everything's fine," she added, popping a bite of her sandwich into her mouth.

Six months prior, Isabella, Carlisle and Esme had reached a compromise. They'd agreed to pay Angela's way through school after Isabella's surgery so long as Angela remained an employee of CGI. Carlisle, the program's sponsor, had taken issue with Isabella's stipulation that they fund Angela's entire education as it was outside of CGI's corporate policy. As a compromise, they'd given Angela a company-sponsored sponsorship, which Isabella was supplementing from her own paycheck. Today's impromptu lunch was Isabella's opportunity to reinforce to Angela the importance of staying in school, no matter what challenges she might face.

"You're a brilliant girl, Angela, with a wonderful future ahead of you. I just want to make sure you keep going with school. It's very important for your future. Trust me."

"I always trust you, Dr. Dwyer," Angela answered sincerely.

"Good." Isabella sighed and relaxed back into her seat. "I want to see you proudly displaying your degree. You have it in you to be an amazing scientist one day."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Dr. Dwyer." Angela lowered her eyes, smiling shyly. "It's nice to hear."

"You're welcome, but you're going to do well, my dear, with or without my vote."

Isabella offered her a faint smile, knowing exactly how true that statement was about to become.

xxxxxxxxx

Carlisle Cullen sat at the head of his family's mahogany conference room table awaiting the arrival of his board of directors. Today's meeting was the final go, or no-go decision for Isabella's surgery and the official launch of the Mii project. A field of butterflies danced in his stomach at the thought. Aside from Dr. Dwyer, he had more riding on this project than anyone else.

As the youngest of three brothers to inherit the family's telegraph fortune, Carlisle was the only one who had yet to see his investment bear fruit. In 1950, after learning he had an incurable sarcoma, Carlisle's father, Eleazar Cullen, had endowed the family fortune to his young sons. However, the inheritance had not come without conditions.

Each son would inherit his third of the fortune on his thirtieth birthday with a challenge to continue the family legacy. That legacy dictated they seek out and fund innovations that would benefit mankind. Although altruistic in inception, the father's challenge eventually turned into a fierce sibling rivalry, and by the time Carlisle reached the age of twenty-eight, he had a sizeable hill to climb.

Carlisle's eldest brother, Liam, had invested in agricultural research. His projects were precursors to modern-day disease-resistant crops. Carlisle's second brother, Stephan, had pursued industrial research geared toward modernizing the infrastructure of developing countries. As for Carlisle, he had gone on to medical school and had eventually become Bethesda North's attending emergency room physician. Long before he came into his inheritance, Carlisle had decided to invest in biomedical research, believing there could be a cure for the cancer that had caused his father's untimely death. For two years leading up to his thirtieth birthday, Carlisle and his wife, Esme, had investigated promising research through which he could build his legacy.

Through that exhaustive search, Carlisle had found not one project to fund, but four. Each tackled cancer through a different approach: prevention, eradication, predictive detection, and finally, the work of Dr. Isabella Dwyer, cellular regrowth and replacement.

In 1982, Isabella had major breakthrough when she'd discovered a way to suppress the stem cells that triggered upper-level brain development. Her research had then been ready to move into clinical trials using animal subjects, a step that had required a significant increase in funding to support the endeavor. Faced with the decision of sacrificing one of his projects, Carlisle had refused, choosing instead to redirect a portion of each project's funds into Isabella's coffer. Then, in 1986, tragedy struck Carlisle and his wife when their only son, Noah, died in a car crash at the age of sixteen. That devastating loss had been the catalyst that shifted the powerful weight of Carlisle's funding in Isabella's direction.

Shortly after Noah's death, Isabella's third trial with lab animals had proved successful, replacing Carlisle's all-consuming grief over his son's death with an obsession to fund a solution. Isabella's research would not bring Noah back, but Carlisle hoped it would offer families an alternative solution from the one forged by grief.

Carlisle traced his fingertip along the words engraved in gold leaf. It was his family's motto:

IMPROVING THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE THROUGH INNOVATION

"How are you, Carlisle?"

Carlisle turned to see Isabella's weathered and tired face smiling down on him. She reached out a hand in fellowship and placed it on his shoulder. Not one to sit in the presence of a lady, Carlisle courteously rose and took Isabella's hand in his.

"Shouldn't I be asking _you_ that question?"

"I'm fine," Isabella said, putting on a brave face. "It's been an odd day."

"Yes, I heard about your BIMO visit."

Isabella smiled. "Are you doubting my abilities, Carlisle? I believe all of Agent Swan's queries were addressed. If he has anything else, Angela will handle it."

"I'm confident on both counts, Isabella."

Carlisle was about to ask another question when the chatter of additional board members reached them from the waiting room outside.

"Guess it's time?" Carlisle nodded toward the doors.

Isabella squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. "It's time."

xxxxxxxxx

Carlisle occupied his usual position at the head of the conference room table. To his left sat Alice, to his right, his wife, Esme. Dr. Michael Newton and Alistair Drake's seats followed Alice's. Then, rounding out the table of six, sat Isabella. Carlisle opened the meeting by recounting his family's legacy, his commitment to the program, and how honored he and Esme had been to take part in it. Isabella tried to pay attention, but all throughout Carlisle's speech, she was watching Esme.

Esme Cullen sat ramrod straight, legs crossed demurely at the ankles, looking the picture of poise at her husband's side. Her signature box purse, akin to those of the Sixty's Era, topped by a pair of gloves, rested on the floor at her feet. Isabella, who sat to Esme's right, was the only one who could see Esme nervously tracing the lines of her fingers as her husband spoke. Her eyes, though looking in the direction of her husband, were fixed at a point beyond him. Perhaps she was thinking of Noah or imagining the days ahead. Isabella wondered if she was worrying over Carlisle's despair or her own grief if the surgery was not successful. They'd both buried so much grief over Noah by submerging themselves in this project.

_Does she doubt my science or Newton's skill? _

Neither question would be answered as Carlisle had finished his speech and turned to his wife to see if she would add anything. Esme declined, and the floor was then passed to Alice.

"As you all know, my concerns are more focused on social adjustments needed post-surgery than for the surgery itself. Dr. Dwyer has spent years of her life in preparation for this day and is staunchly determined to take the next step. She is as ready for tomorrow as any person could be."

Alice's eyes moved to Isabella's. Her shoulder-length brunette hair waved subtly as she gave Isabella a brief nod of encouragement.

Michael Newton spoke next. He was as confident and self-assured as one would expect of a brilliant surgeon considered an expert in his field. As trim and fit as any fifty-year-old Isabella had ever encountered, Michael prided himself on both his appearance and his ability to attract women many years his junior. Though the idea made Isabella's skin crawl, she did her best to look past Michael's physical exploits. What he did on his own time was none of her concern. She was solely focused on his skill as a surgeon, and in that respect, Michael Newton was the best of the best.

Michael reviewed the timeline for the surgery and the finer points of Isabella's last lab results. She had long since gotten over the discomfort of the board publicly discussing results from her physical examinations. Privacy and modesty were only two of many things she'd given up in light of the bigger picture. Alice had remarked on it once, saying it was much like how a woman gave up all semblance of modesty when birthing her child. That a round-faced chubby-fingered new life was far more important than baring one's self before a room full of labor and delivery staff. Isabella nodded, even though she had no experience to rely upon to substantiate her agreement. She was not about to bring new life into this world. She could only hope they'd be able to extend this one.

Alistair took the floor next, shifting in his seat and smoothing a hand over his gel-thickened coif.

"As previously expressed by Dr. Dwyer and Dr. Cullen, discretion is paramount to this procedure. All necessary steps have been taken to ensure that privacy while Dr. Dwyer recovers from the surgery. Resources have been retained according—"

"What resources?" Isabella interrupted, straightening and ignoring the searing pain in her hip.

Alistair paused mid-sentence and looked to Carlisle for help.

"There are a few things we needed assistance with for the timing to work right. I can assure you, Isabella, that the, uh, resources retained by Mr. Alistair and any employees of CGI involved know only the barest details regarding the transfer tomorrow. Even with that, Mr. Alistair has obtained signed non-disclosure agreements as additional insurance."

Isabella frowned, disliking the idea of important details being changed both at the last minute and without her knowledge.

"I'm sure Mr. Drake and Dr. Cullen have your best interests at heart, Dr. Dwyer."

A succinct way of translating Alice's statement would be, _You have to give up control at some point, Isabella, get used to it. Trust them._

The message had been delivered, but that didn't mean Isabella had to like it.

"I am quite confident in the abilities of the entire board; however, I take comfort in being well-informed. It puts my mind at ease."

"A woman was retained to play the part of your granddaughter, Isabella. It was the best alternative available."

Introducing more people outside of the project risked exposure, and Isabella did not want to take that chance. Unfortunately, it appeared as though the decision had been made without her.

"I agreed with the proposal Mr. Alistair brought forward and I signed off on it," Carlisle continued." I apologize if this is unsettling. Of course, as the clinical investigator, you always have the right to cancel the surgery, but I think Alistair's approach is the best way."

Canceling the surgery was well within her rights both as the CI and as the test subject, but the idea of formulating a new plan, coordinating the schedule, and mentally gearing up all over again was so unsettling that Isabella immediately tossed out that option. It came down to a choice: now…or never. Her life hung in the balance of faith she placed in the people seated around this table. Isabella looked to Carlisle, searching for any hint doubt. The tension in his posture was the only evidence of his disquiet. His face remained composed as he returned Isabella's stare, willing her to make her choice.

Isabella took a deep breath and looked from Carlisle to Esme. "Tomorrow, we change the world."

A collective sigh was followed by well-wishes and solemn words of encouragement as each person left the conference room.

"Eat nothing after midnight. I'll see you tomorrow," Newton said with a parting smirk.

Thankfully, _he_ was as confident and cocky as ever.

Carlisle stepped up next, taking both of Isabella's hands in his. "It's an honor to work with you, Isabella. I started this with the idea of building on my father's legacy. Today, all I want is to see a brighter future where accidents like Noah's don't have to end…" Carlisle paused, trying to rein in his emotions. The anguish over his son's death looked to be as piercing now as when it happened twenty-five years before.

Esme stepped in front of Carlisle, hugged Isabella tightly, then lifted her black box purse from the table and quietly led Carlisle from the room.

Only Alice remained.

Alice had watched Isabella all afternoon, taking note of how she was handling the emotional burden of the day. Isabella braced herself for another emotional farewell, but Alice's words were far from what she'd expected.

"Did you do something different yesterday?" she asked.

A little annoyed at not having a more grandiose tale to tell, Isabella hesitated. "Well, yes. I went to the pa—"

Alice held up her hand. "I don't need to know what you did. That was for you. When you get home, I want you to take out a scrap piece of paper and write down what you learned from your experience yesterday. Then stick it to your refrigerator, okay?"

Isabella felt like scratching her head, wondering why she'd been assigned the task, but agreed nonetheless. "Very well."

Alice smiled brightly and gave Isabella a quick peck on the cheek. It was a simple farewell, like one she would give her daughter Cyndi before sending her off to school.

"I'll see you later…_Bella._"

* * *

**Next chapter we follow Isabella into the unknown... **

**Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think.**


	5. Chapter 5

**To my betas, thanks for making this better. To Tarbecca from ADF, thanks for the rec!**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Isabella woke with the dawn after a fitful night's sleep. As she lay in bed, her thoughts shifted like bees in a hive. They ranged from the complexity of genome nomenclature to mundane musings over the contents of her refrigerator. After an hour of tossing, she got up cursing her hip, then made the bed and threw a load of laundry into the washer. She was too keyed up to listen to music or watch television. Newton told her she couldn't eat or drink, leaving only the task of washing the cup and saucer from last night's tea.

Sitting around the table and waiting would not keep her sane, so after finishing the dishes, she took out the nearly empty bag of trash. Stepping onto the back porch, Isabella felt the morning sunlight fluttering through the leaves to dance upon her skin. She took in a breath of crisp, fall, air and let it out slowly. The quiet moment to enjoy the outdoors, offered a much-needed respite from her tattered thoughts.

There was a light frost blanketing the grass, turning it a faded aqua hue. The color reminded Isabella of a hand-tinted photo that had adorned her mother's mantle. The photograph was of her grinning father as he held her in his arms. Isabella's comical, young face was screwed up in determination as she worked to turn the heavy wheel of an apple press. The memory of the tart cider made Isabella's mouth water. She could practically feel her six-year-old self's impish smile when she lowered the metal cup of cider from her dripping chin.

Isabella slammed the lid on both her trash and her thoughts, determined that today was a day to look forward, not back. After unnecessarily smoothing her already-tidy blouse, Isabella squared her shoulders to the sun and took one step forward, then another and another. Before she knew it, she was back inside the warmth of her kitchen.

A half hour later, after compulsively re-confirming that she'd paid all her monthly bills, Isabella was eying her Frigidaire with disgust. Part of her wanted to turn everything out so nothing would spoil before Alice came to clean it out, but she was hesitating. If her death was ever investigated, someone might consider it suspicious to find nothing but a few condiments in her icebox. As it was, she'd already thrown out the leftover Kung Pao shrimp from two nights ago. She didn't want to imagine what that stench would be like if that were left to spoil.

The clock ticked slowly past nine, leaving Isabella with another painful thirty minutes to endure before she could depart. The only sound in the room was the echo of her nails nervously drumming against the table.

Turning her gaze from the clock on the stove back to the refrigerator, Isabella noticed how barren it looked. A freebie calendar from the local card store marked the wrong month and few scattered magnets encircled it. One was from a local blood drive, one reminded her of her church's bingo nights (which she never attended), and one was from the local poison control. Off to the side, stood a collection she'd received from the local firefighters after sending them her annual donation.

With a start, Isabella remembered Alice's assignment. Half worried she'd forgotten something else, half excited to have something do to, Isabella let out a gasp as she rose from the table. She hadn't taken any ibuprofen today, and her hip was particularly stiff. With gritted teeth, she made her way to the counter and pulled out a pen and a sheet from a tablet she'd received as a joke last Christmas. Inscribed at the bottom, next to a frazzled-looking stick figure in a lab coat, was the saying,

**That's the nature of research - you don't know what in hell you're doing. -Harold "Doc" Edgerton**

Isabella shook her head with a grin. Today, of all days, she had to find a proverbial Confucius in a Crackerjack box.

Another quick glance at the clock told her she had twenty minutes left before she needed to leave. With pen in hand, she tried to focus her thoughts on what she had learned from her day at the park. She remembered feeling peaceful as she traced the rough fountain with her hand. She'd also felt at ease with both the order of the topiary gardens and the wild beauty beyond the rough-hewn wall. Then, her mind flashed to images of Alec's tearful eyes and the relief on his mother's face when she took him in her arms. Isabella nervously tapped the pen against the table in tempo with the thoughts bouncing around in her mind. It seemed impossible to sum all of that up on one tiny piece of loose leaf. Though Isabella didn't have a natural talent for writing, at times she surprised herself with a few eloquent words. She took a deep breath then tried to articulate what that day had meant to her:

**Life doesn't always lend itself to straight lines or neat patterns. **

**It's the wild, the different, & the unknown we are meant to follow to experience the beauty of life.**

**Don't be afraid to take the hand others extend to you, else You might miss the chance to experience something magical.**

With that note stuck firmly to her fridge, Isabella picked up her keys and prepared herself to step onto the new unmarked path of her life.

**XXXXXXXXX**

It was a relief to find that the morning's frost was now no more than condensation on the windshield. A wreck was the absolute last thing she needed today. Slowly, Isabella eased herself behind the wheel, allowing the supple leather to cradle her in calming comfort.

A flashy car was the one frivolous purchase Isabella made each decade. Her current baby was a 2007 silver Mustang GT. Though she was seventy-five, aging and frail in body, the purr of the GT's powerful engine matched the way Isabella felt inside. Behind this wheel, she could run fast and free, allowing the winding road to open before her.

The key left an indent in her weathered fingers when she turned the ignition. It was yet another reminder of the difference between how she felt and how she looked.

"You're as young as you feel my ass," Isabella breathed shakily.

The steering wheel vibrated beneath her grip as she waited for the car to warm. It was almost possible to disguise the nervous tremble in her hands. She wouldn't try to fool herself into believing she wasn't scared. Isabella took a deep breath, checked her mirrors and began slowly backing down the drive.

Rush hour traffic heading down to Cincinnati had long since passed, leaving the back roads deserted. Leaves piled up along the side of the road masked the earth in a brown hue, while trees colored in red, green, and gold whirled past her speeding car. Up to this point, the roads had been barren, but that quickly changed as Isabella came up behind a yellow taxicab. The cab was moseying along, forcing Isabella to apply the brakes until she slowed to a crawl. She paced a few car lengths behind the cab, muttering to herself that whoever was inside was going to get soaked as the cabbie milked his fare. The engine surged with an impatient growl when she hit the gas. She was in a hurry round the cab as it turned into a gas station.

Still musing about a cab's odd appearance all the way out here in the sticks, Isabella almost missed Alistair. He was standing on the far side of the road checking his watch. She slowed just in time to see him pointing to a turnaround at the next cross street. A minute later, she pulled the Mustang to a stop beside his black Mercedes.

"You can shut it off," Alistair instructed as he approached her window.

It was unnerving to park in the middle of the road. Isabella kept glancing at her rearview mirror expecting a tractor-trailer to come up and slam into her back-end.

"Give me the keys."

Alistair's tone was all business. Isabella hastily complied, eager to get this over with as quickly as possible.

"Good. The rental car is fifty feet down the road," Alistair said nodding over his shoulder. "When you get out of the car, I want you to walk right to it. Don't look back, and don't stop, no matter what you hear. There's an old jacket and ball cap on the front seat. Put them on first, then take off."

Isabella watched Alistair as he went around and unlocked the trunk of his car. He hauled out a tattered suitcase and a trendy looking purse. He slung both into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Isabella's eyes grew wide in astonishment as Alistair confidently executed each detail of his plan with precision. So many things that Isabella had never considered herself were all a part Alistair's intricate design.

Watching through the rearview mirror, Isabella saw Alistair racing back around to her side. He slid a black-gloved hand beneath the door handle and pried it open. Once more, he checked his watch.

"Okay, take this set of keys and turn the car back on. Lock all the doors, keep your foot on the brake, then put it in drive."

Isabella's hands shook as she took the keys containing her script I key fob and started the engine. Once more the Mustang purred beneath her fingertips. Alistair motioned for her to unbuckle herself. Her leg was starting to cramp, but she held the brake fast as she released the seatbelt. A horrified gasp escaped her as Alistair took a cloth-wrapped ball the size of a softball and slammed it against the windshield, mimicking the impact of her head. Isabella's gaze drifted as she envisioned a fanning spider's web in the splintered glass.

"In a minute, you're going to slide out," Alistair said, breaking her trance. "You need to keep your foot on the brake as long as possible. The car will roll forward when you release the brake, but I'll help you out. Wait until I give you the signal."

Alistair got a good hold on Isabella's upper arm then nodded.

"Let's go."

Pulling a one-hundred-and-thirty-five-pound woman from her car proved to be a simple task for Alistair. Unfortunately for Isabella, her flexibility and dexterity were not what they used to be. She stumbled as Alistair hauled her to her feet, nearly causing them both to tumble to the ground. Alistair released her quickly and lunged forward to grab the Mustang's door and slam it shut.

Isabella stood frozen in place as she watched Alistair pull what appeared to be a second car remote from his pocket. In dumbstruck fascination, she watched the Mustang's tires spin as the car sped off without her.

"GO!" Alistair roared as he looked over his shoulder to find her still standing there.

Without hesitation, Isabella turned and fled as quickly as her shaking legs could carry her. Her whole body was on autopilot as she took off in the opposite direction of her beloved car. The rental car Alistair described, an older green sedan, was parked along the edge of the roadway. The green paint was just enough camouflage to keep it from being noticed.

The sedan was only five feet from her now. The door handle lay just beyond the reach of her shaking fingertips. Isabella let go of the breath she was holding when the echo of the crash reached her ears. The inhuman sounds of shattering glass and twisting metal colliding with trees reverberated down the roadway. No matter how quickly Isabella reached her destination, there was no way of escaping the violence behind her.

Driven by fear and the overwhelming flight instinct, Isabella stiffly took her final steps. The door was unlocked, but her shaky hand slipped on the handle as she tried to pry it open. Stumbling backward, Isabella barely found her footing in time to avoid a nasty fall.

Shaking off the image of Alistair putting her in an ambulance with a broken hip, Isabella scrambled back to the car. This time she made sure she had a tight grip on the door before giving it a yank. A second later, she slipped inside, clamoring to drag the door closed behind her. Cocooned in the quiet, Isabella allowed her mind a brief respite from the horrible echo of the crash.

_Get a grip, _she ordered herself_. This is the easy part._

Her chest was heaving, spurred by a heady combination of exertion, fear and adrenaline. The deep breaths made her gag from the stench of stale cigarettes permeating the air.

To her right was an old ball cap and gray fleece jacket, several sizes too big for her. Forcing her body into action, she managed to get into the jacket, but every movement felt clumsy and sluggish, like trying to run under water. She swore loudly when it took her three tries to get her arm through the second sleeve.

The sedan's keys were already in the ignition. The old car choked and sputtered, when Isabella cranked the engine, but mercifully, it started. She grabbed the dated, zigzag gearshift on the steering column and put the car into drive. The car lurched like an agitated thoroughbred, aggravating Isabella's already frazzled nerves.

Habit more than curiosity caused Isabella to check the mirrors before easing onto the road. It wasn't intentional, but in doing so, she'd disobeyed Alistair's order. Stunned to stone stillness, Isabella resembled Lot's wife. She felt a hammer striking her chest as Sodom and Gomorrah appeared in her rearview mirror. Alistair's car was gone and a plume of ominous black smoke billowed from a line of trees in the distance. Just as she hit the gas, Isabella could have sworn she saw a ghostly figure in the road with long dark hair trailing in the ash colored wind.

This was much more than she bargained for, and the sudden realization of that fact made Isabella sick. She'd consciously decided to end her current life, convinced that no one would be hurt by a fake accident. Reality struck hard, and tears of shock and remorse began to fall, washing her disillusionment away.

"It's done now,"she whispered to herself_. _"Focus on the next step and do your part."

Taking a deep breath, Isabella walked herself through what would come next to steady her flailing nerves:

_Drive to Bethesda_

_Park in the remote patient lot_

_Take the southwest elevator to the fourth floor_

_Find room four-o-three_

Though categorically unsettled by the staged crash, Isabella managed to calm herself enough to follow those instructions. Forty minutes later, she slipped unnoticed inside patient room 403. Leaning back against the door to the sterile room, Isabella let out a heavy breath. Her legs quaked beneath her and she longed to slink to the floor if only for a moment. Unfortunately, rest was a luxury she couldn't afford.

Pushing away from the door, Isabella grabbed two personal effects bags and a hospital gown from a chair resting to the right of the door. Sitting gingerly so as not to attract anyone by the noise, she removed her shoes and placed them in the bag. One by one, each article of clothing was stripped away as though she was taking off layer upon layer of her life. Only the cap and gray jacket remained; they were placed in the second bag.

In stocking feet, Isabella plodded across the room and set both bags next to an inner door that connected her room to the next one. Too nervous to sit, too shaken to walk, Isabella closed her eyes and prayed.

**XXXXXXXXX**

Minutes passed like hours until a familiar face popped through the adjoining room door.

"Isabella," Carlisle breathed with a relieved smile. "I'm going to grab the bag—I'll be back in a few minutes."

Carlisle took the bag with the cap and jacket then disappeared as quickly as he came. With the physical evidence of the morning gone, Isabella finally felt able to take a full breath.

The stillness of the room seemed like a bridge ready to be crossed, a portal to the next step. Try as she might to focus on the surgery, she was already standing at the edge.

The moment she'd been anticipating for two decades was finally at hand, filling her with bright-eyed excitement and nervous anticipation. Minutes that had passed slowly only moments before, were now sifting through her fingers like sand. Each speck felt too tiny to catch as the pile of time remaining in her palm grew smaller and smaller.

"Okay, Isabella," Carlisle called blindly as he backed a gurney through the adjoining room's door. The bed's rumpled sheets partially concealed an orange backboard. On top lay a neck brace, a patient chart and a carrier containing a few vials of blood.

Carlisle turned part way through the room, likely wondering why she hadn't responded to him. He froze, likely recognizing the signs of shock written all over Isabella's face. In an instant, he was around the bed, taking her hands in his. They felt so warm wrapped around her ice-cold fingers.

"Are you okay?"

Isabella waved him off, but even she could tell her hands were shaking. She lifted one distractedly and began nervously patting her normally coiffed white waves.

"I'm fine. It was just the accident."

The concerned look on Carlisle's face deepened as he ran his eyes over her from head to toe. After he was satisfied no visible damage had been done, he lowered the gurney to a comfortable height and helped Isabella to sit. His practiced fingers wrapped around her wrist, immediately finding her pulse. It didn't take three seconds for either of them to know it was beating a lot faster than normal.

"What happened? Did something go wrong?" he asked.

"No, nothing went wrong. I think Alistair had every last detail planned out. It's just…I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that."

Carlisle placed his hands on Isabella's shoulders, silently asking her to meet his eyes. Isabella had never seen Carlisle practice medicine. He was kind, compassionate and very skilled. After decades of knowing him, Isabella realized she'd missed what made Carlisle Cullen a truly phenomenal human being.

"The most important thing right now is you. I will not allow you to go through with this if you're not ready. There's nothing we've done so far that can't be altered or fixed. Dr. Isabella Dwyer is right here," he said with a light shake of her shoulders. "She can walk right out of this hospital, stunned but grateful she survived a terrible car accident."

For a brief moment, Isabella considered walking through the hospital doors and slipping back under the covers of her warm bed. The relief that option offered was so overwhelming that it felt like lunacy to pass it up.

"I'm fine, Carlisle. A little shaken, but fine," she said, her voice growing stronger with each word. "I thank you for your concern, but I know I'm ready for this."

The words came naturally, the tone of her voice commanding as it had been while running her project. That tone gave confidence to everyone around her. It was familiar, and for the first time in days, Isabella felt back in control. _She_ was making the decision to press forward with the final step. _She_ was calling the shots.

With her back straight and her eyes focused, Carlisle visibly relaxed under the weight of her gaze, somehow comforted by the woman standing before him in nothing but a hospital gown.

"Okay," he agreed with a curt nod. "Let's get you ready."

The pair spent the next several minutes making Isabella look like the accident victim she was pretending to be. Carlisle snapped an ID bracelet on her wrist, then fitted the neck brace comfortably but snugly around her neck. He went to a cabinet above a counter used for charting and grabbed some supplies. With practiced hands, he deftly wrapped Isabella's head with clean white gauze. Finally, he donned a pair of gloves and grabbed one of the vials.

"Whose blood is that?" Isabella asked.

She was trying to keep her voice steady, but she was more than a bit unnerved as Carlisle uncorked the vial and made his approach.

"Yours," Carlisle said with a grin. "It's from your last blood test. We just took an extra two vials."

"I remember," Isabella said with forced sarcasm while mockingly rubbing the vein that had been stabbed.

Carlisle positioned Isabella on the gurney and liberally applied blood to the gauze and skin near her temple to mimic a significant head wound. Blood was dabbed onto her fingertips as if she'd touched her head after the accident. Isabella's personal effects were also treated with the blood as Carlisle found necessary, then placed back into the plastic hospital bag. He grabbed a black marker from his pocket, and Isabella watched as he wrote her name on the patient line:

ISABELLA DWYER

Distantly, she wondered if this would be the last time she'd see her real name being written by anyone's hand. Isabella Dwyer was about to be no more.

A sound behind her distracted her from those thoughts, but with the neck brace in place, she was unable to see what Carlisle was doing. The telltale sound of his gloves snapping off his hands followed by a thunk and clink signaled he'd tossed the blood identified as Isabella's into the biohazard bin.

"Won't it be curious if they find vials of my blood all the way up here?" Isabella asked.

"It would be if they could identify it as yours," Carlisle answered. Isabella noted the gleam in Carlisle's eyes as he showed her that he'd removed the label from the vial. Once again, she was awed by the number of things each member of the team had considered in preparation for today.

Rooms 402 and 403 were right by the elevator, significantly improving the chances of Isabella and Carlisle's departure going unnoticed. The bell rang, announcing the elevator's arrival, and Carlisle swung the gurney into place. The bell sounded once during their trip to the basement level operating rooms. When the doors opened, a group of young interns piled in next to Isabella's gurney.

Carlisle picked up her chart and began flipping through it, rattling the paper noisily and putting off an air that he was too engrossed to make pleasantries. Isabella quickly shut her eyes, not wanting to lock gazes with one of the curious students. The interns got off a floor later, but Carlisle didn't speak again. He shifted unconsciously from foot to foot, waiting for the slow moving doors to open once they reached the basement OR. This was not the bedside manner Carlisle had shown in the hospital room. This was anxiety, anticipation or both.

Before Isabella could consider this further, the bell sounded, announcing their arrival. Carlisle pressed his badge to the reader at the end of the corridor and plain cream doors swung open, granting them entry. After traveling down a second corridor, a large sign in white lettering against a midnight blue background hung above the door reading OR 3 PREP. Isabella gritted her teeth as that set of doors opened before her bed. The strong scent of hospital-grade disinfectant filled her nostrils, making her already weak stomach begin to roll.

"This is where I leave you to go get cleaned up," Carlisle announced as he brought the gurney to a halt.

"I didn't think you were going to stay for the surgery," Isabella inquired as a nurse released her from the confines of her neck brace.

"I'm not, but I will stay with you until Michael's ready."

The words were a great comfort. It wasn't that Isabella disliked Michael Newton, more that Carlisle's familiar presence would help steady her until she went under.

"I'm Shelly," a second nurse, who looked to be in her early fifties, said kindly. "I'm going to prep you for surgery."

With gentle hands, Shelly discarded the bloody bandages and cleansed Isabella's face. She asked Isabella to confirm her name against the one printed on her ID bracelet, then started an IV and took her vitals.

"After you're shaved, we're going to walk you into the OR through that door," Shelly began, pointing to the large door at the end of the room. "I'm going to help you onto the table and put a pair of compression stockings on your legs. Then the anesthesiologist will give you something to help you relax. It won't put you all the way under, but it may make you drowsy."

Isabella nodded and shut her mind to the sound of an electric razor buzzing nearby. Her physical appearance was no longer of any consequence, so she sought distraction by taking her thoughts elsewhere.

Try as she might, Isabella could not find a quiet, peaceful place in her mind. The events of the morning swirled behind her eyes, flashing in and out like fireflies. Coupled with the buzzing razor, Isabella was left feeling lightheaded and dizzy, despite her tightly shut eyes.

Although everything had been planned and executed right down to the very last detail, a nagging worry sat heavily in the pit of her stomach. It was the same concern she'd had since the board meeting yesterday. It defied logic how so many people could be involved while still managing to keep the procedure quiet and out of the press.

Michael's reputation and connections would provide the staff required to perform the surgery, but that alone wouldn't be enough. Alistair had obvious skill with documents, both legitimate and falsified. He'd already created a granddaughter for Isabella out of thin air. He could legitimize the surgery by providing misleading documentation from the FDA, but that too would be insufficient.

The one thing that could cement the plan together was Carlisle's money. An unstoppable combination of power, prestige and money forged a formidable team. Though it would be impossible to relieve all of Isabella's concerns of exposure, the improbable now seemed possible.

"All done," Shelly said kindly, helping Isabella rise from her bed.

All at once, the room felt significantly cooler. The thin hospital gown or her newly uncovered head could have caused her chill, but she didn't have to worry about it for long. She was already on her feet, shuffling toward the operating room door. The stunning reality was how quickly this was all happening. The remaining grains of sand in the palm of her hand flew through her fingers like dry leaves in a windstorm.

Guided by the nurse who held her IV bag, Isabella stepped into the OR. A warm blanket covered the table she'd been helped to lay upon and another immediately covered her up to her chin. The warmth soothed her, making her feel as though she was being cradled in a cocoon.

Each of her legs were gently lifted and then slid into a stretchy material as the nurse had described. A physician, who introduced himself as Dr. Gerandy, sat by Isabella's head. She couldn't see his face beneath the blue surgical mask, but his eyes were kind and welcoming.

"This should make you feel great," the doctor said, his eyes crinkling at their corners, making Isabella belatedly realize he was smiling at his own joke.

A movement out of the corner of her eye distracted her, and Isabella turned to see the prep team in the adjoining bay. A member of that team turned to reach across the table, and in that brief moment, Isabella saw the Mii lying prone on a table that mirrored her own once. The face was bleached chalky white by the overhead surgical lights. To Isabella, it matched the pallor of a blood-drained corpse. Before she had time to examine it any further, the prep team member leaned back into place, blocking her view. Isabella swallowed thickly, feeling an icy chill that had nothing to do with her IV run down her spine.

_The science is sound,_ she thought. _Everything is going to be fine._

As if he'd read her thoughts, Carlisle appeared by her side, donned in full surgical gear.

"Everything's going to be fine," he assured her, taking her hand in his.

"I know," she answered with as much confidence as she could muster.

Michael stepped into view beside Carlisle. He too demonstrated a side of his personality Isabella had never seen before. If Carlisle had a comforting bedside manner, Michael's was the opposite. He barked orders at his staff who responded by adjusting lights, turning on music and preparing various trays of supplies. Michael turned from his staff to look at Isabella. His eyes widened for just a moment as he took in her round, smooth head.

"We're a go." He nodded commandingly.

Isabella was not about to let anyone call the final shot.

_Not today, Michael._

It was never in Isabella's nature to hand over the reins to someone else, and it was certainly not going to happen during the final test of her project. Today was the day she was going to put years of confidence limits, correlations and sensitivities to the test. This was the step she'd worked toward for fifty years.

Today was not about hypotheses or data analysis; it was about the one confounding variable that could never be isolated or eliminated from the equation: _fear_. Isabella's fear was as limiting and as crippling to this project as any bacterium. It was the one thing that could forestall everything she had worked so hard to achieve. It was there, lurking like a knife, a scalpel to be placed in Michael's hand.

Her heart thundered, and like the final rapid ticks of a bomb, Isabella knew her time in this life, _at least in this form_, was running short. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. Fear would not be the last thing she felt before the slice of the knife. She refused it, beating it back inch by inch.

_The science is sound_, she repeated to herself.

She believed it, and now she was about to prove it. She lifted her chin, confidently prepared to receive the anesthesiologist's mask.

"I'm ready."

Michael nodded, and the mask gently descended over her nose and mouth. Instead of counting as the anesthesiologist instructed, Isabella shut her eyes and simply prayed. The last thing she sensed was the gentle squeeze of her hand, and Carlisle's quiet words in her ear.

"Safe journey, Isabella."

* * *

**Next chapter - the start of a new existence**

**Thanks for reading and let me know what you think.**

**-FirstBlush**


	6. Chapter 6

******Thanks for your patience last week, we took the munchkins on vacation to St. Louis. It was a great place to visit with kids.************I highly recommend the City Museum! **

******As always, to my betas, thanks for making this better. **

* * *

**Chapter 5**

_Sad news to report this morning out of northern Cincinnati, a renowned local scientist has died in a car crash. More on this story after the break._

Charlie Swan paused mid stroke as the broadcast echoed from his bedroom television. Piqued by the story's description, he reached over and turned down the volume on his police scanner to hear the TV better. The scanner was his morning alarm clock, and Charlie typically divided his attention between it and whatever news clip he deemed worthy.

Resuming his efforts, Charlie swiped the razor blade along his jaw, leaving a perfectly cleared path in the white foam. He squinted at his reflection, checked for errant hairs, then rinsed the blade and returned it to its proper place. Beside the razor was a towel folded in perfect military precision. He snapped it open, wiped his face, then slung it over his bare shoulder. With the grace of a cat he paced back to the bedroom in time to hear the broadcast echo through the room.

_Dr. Isabella Dwyer was driving home from the Cincinnati airport when she lost control of her vehicle and ran off the road. The gray 2007 Mustang ran head first into a line of trees, fatally injuring the seventy-five year old woman. _

With a furrowed brow, Charlie examined the carnage displayed in the video footage. What used to be a shiny sports car was now a burned-out pile of twisted metal and broken glass. While the driver's side was destroyed, the back end remained intact, demonstrating a perverse contrast between the before and after.

_Dwyer was rushed to Bethesda North but later died from her injuries. The passenger in the vehicle, a twenty-five year old woman, is reportedly in critical condition. Services for Dr. Dwyer will be held at Saint Susanna Church in Mason on Thursday evening._

_Up next, a house fire in Jamestown is suspected—_

Flipping off the broadcast, Charlie strode down the hall to his office. With only a towel covering him, he shivered as his warm skin met the crisp morning air. Until now the weather had been warm enough to avoid turning on the heat—that would soon change.

A quick pull of the chain on his desk lamp illuminated the green glass shade. Everything on the desk shone brightly under the lamp's warm glow, including the envelope containing his draft divorce settlement. Charlie purposefully avoided it, heading straight for the locked drawer that housed his personal files.

After typing in the combination, a row of files appeared as well as a locked box containing his firearm. The files were arranged alphabetically based on the lead clinical investigator's name. Charlie's fingertips crawled along file tabs until he reached the one and only D in the drawer.

"Dwyer," he said to himself.

Charlie had methodically created a file for each CI the same way he would have for a person of interest in a CIA investigation. He followed the same procedures as an active agent, justifying it by telling himself he couldn't let a cushy FDA job make him soft. He was lying to himself and had been for the better part of a year. Though he may no longer be a federal agent, the job never left his mind.

Charlie rubbed a finger over his lower lip as he looked through the file. Though some projects sanctioned by the FDA were admittedly more interesting than others, Isabella Dwyer's project scared the shit out of him. He could still feel his skin crawl at the memory of her touching the back of his hand. He'd flinched and had hated himself ever since. Charlie was a man who prided himself on being calm and collected in all situations. Thus, it irritated him to no end that a seventy-five year old woman, weighing one-thirty soaking wet, had rattled his chains.

The memory of it still made him scowl. With a great effort Charlie, forced himself to put aside the memory of his lapse in control and focus on the notes he'd made that day.

**_Isabella Dwyer, age seventy-five of Mason, Ohio._**

**_Clinical Investigator (CI) for the Microbiological intercellular intervention project, Mii._**

**_Project inception 1970._**

**_Phase 1 trials - 1982._**

**_Human cellular experimentation - early 1987._**

_Two early developmental failures were documented in 1987 and 1988. One listed the cause as unknown, the second was attributed to bacterial contamination. Sterilization procedures were immediately implemented. Trial documentation was forwarded to the Institutional Review Board (IRB) for mandatory annual review. Last IRB evaluation was this past July. All project documentation found in order and up to audit standards. The donor's legally authorized representative, Jason Jenks, Esquire, signed the informed consent form in 1987. Form has a unique clause requiring all donated human biological material be destroyed in the event that Dr. Dwyer (CI) leaves the program._

_**10/17 visit:** Observed fully mature human shell grown in laboratory setting. CI reports that upper-level brain development was suppressed during the incubation stage. According to CI, the Mii does not think or feel. It cannot move on its own and does not experience pain. CI describes it as a shell, created to extend the duration and quality of human life by replacing the part that degrades the fastest._

_**Follow up:** CI will be out of the office the week of 10/23 - 11/1 for a local visit with family. Inquiries are to be directed to PA Angela Webber in CI's absence. No further questions at this time._

The remaining notations relayed contact information for Dr. Dwyer and her assistant.

Charlie looked over his notes once more.

"If Dwyer's dead, they need to get the donor to sign a new consent form, otherwise they'll have to destroy everything."

As much as the concept of the program unnerved Charlie, he didn't want to see forty years of research go up in smoke either. Resolved to keep that from happening, Charlie picked up the phone on his desk and dialed.

The line rang again and again but remained unanswered. Charlie glanced at the clock on his desk then quickly dropped his gaze. The bare spot next to the clock invoked a stabbing sensation in his chest. His wife's photograph had once rested in that spot. The pain spread down his arm, making the hand holding Ms. Webber's contact information began to shake. The sound of the trembling paper competed with the echo of the phone intermittently buzzing in his ear.

Charlie tried to shake the anxiety clawing at his chest but was too riled up to shut it down completely. Finally, the office's answering service picked up, offering him an escape hatch. He clamped his mouth shut and waited impatiently for the pre-recorded message to end.

"Ms. Webber," Charlie said with a bark that masked his anxiety as anger. "This is Charles Swan. I need an update on CGI's efforts to obtain a new consent form from the donor. I expect this to be your top priority."

He was about to hang up when he remembered how Dwyer's assistant had lit up after hearing a word of praise from her boss. Some long lost sense of decorum clawed at him until he finally added a few parting words to his message.

"And uh … I'm sorry for your loss," he murmured.

Pressing the end button, the line went dead, but Charlie couldn't manage to put the phone back on the cradle. Instead, he looked at the empty spot on his desk. His heart raced as he thought of the young passenger who was also injured in Dwyer's crash. Before he could stop himself, he dialed a second number. This one too went straight to voicemail.

"Chelsea? It's dad. Hey, I know you're busy but … give me a call."

He waited for as long as he could, hoping the anxiety would pass, but it didn't. Frozen like a block of ice, he was unable to move or let go. Swallowing hard, Charlie forced himself to speak, straining to get out his final words.

"I love you."

xxxXxxx

"Bella … Bella."

Alice sat next to Bella's hospital bed, running her fingers over the back of her friend's hand. It felt as though she'd called that name a thousand times in the last ten days. Her spirits dipped a little lower each time the call went unanswered. There was no response, no movement, and for each day that passed without sign of consciousness, the fear Alice was keeping at bay crept a little closer.

A knock on the door made Alice nearly jump out of her skin. Her heart clenched, and her eyes darted around the room. There was no place to hide from what was coming.

"Come in," she quivered, unable to hide the emotion leaching into her strained voice.

Jasper, Alice's beloved husband of twelve years, pushed through the door, allowing her to release the breath she'd been holding.

_Dr. Newton wouldn't have knocked, _Alice reminded herself.

"Anything?" Jasper asked, though by the expression on his wife's face, he already knew the answer.

Alice shook her head.

"Nothing."

Seeing that Alice was practically in tears, Jasper crossed the room and gently lifted her into his arms.

"Come home, Alice," he soothed. "You need a break and Cyndi needs her mommy."

It was easy to acquiesce; Alice immediately slid her arms around him, clinging to his solid warmth like a lifeline. In response, Jasper ran a hand over the back of Alice's head and pressed his lips to her temple. The comfort he offered opened a floodgate of emotion. Tears spilled from Alice's cheeks, quickly saturating the front of Jasper's starched shirt.

"Shh," Jasper soothed, cradling Alice with one arm and tracing line of her cheek with the other.

"Jasper, what am I going to do?" Alice sobbed, looking up with despair in tear-filled eyes.

Jasper tightened his hold on her; he knew the answer. They both did.

"Every time that door opens, my heart is in my throat and I can barely breathe."

"Alice," he said firmly. "You've got to quit doing this to yourself."

"How can I? I don't want to face him. I know what he's going to say."

Alice closed her eyes and buried her face against his chest.

"She needs to wake up." Alice's words, though forceful, came out muffled and weak against Jasper's sodden shirt. "I can't do it."

"Alice," Jasper said, pulling back and taking her by the shoulders. "Newton won't come to you unless he's absolutely sure. That hasn't happened yet, but you need to be prepared if it does."

Jasper looked past Alice to the tiny body lying on the bed—still as a stone.

"She told you she didn't want to live a half life. She trusted you with the choice."

Jasper hated Isabella for putting this on Alice. No one should be faced with choosing life or death for another, especially not someone like Alice. She didn't believe that right could be granted to another human being. To her, that decision belonged solely to God.

Releasing Alice's shoulders, Jasper cupped a tear-stained cheek and tenderly rubbed the wetness from her skin. Though Isabella had made Alice responsible for this choice, he would make sure she didn't face it alone.

"Look, there's no decision to make right now. Let it be for the night. Come home."

Dropping his hand from her cheek, Jasper stepped toward the door. His eyes never strayed from hers. In a wordless request shared by lovers, he asked her to follow.

Alice shadowed his step then stopped, shaking off the instinct to follow her husband's lead.

"Okay," she said tiredly. "Just give me a moment."

Releasing Jasper's hand, Alice turned back to gather her coat and purse. She stepped toward the bed, closed her eyes, and sent up a silent prayer. When she opened them, she lifted one of Bella's hands and gently stroked the soft skin. Nothing moved. Finally, Alice bent very close and whispered.

"Come back, Bella."

xxxXxxx

The recurring vision of her mother appeared again. This time, her mother's hand was outstretched as she called her by her nickname.

_Bella_

The tone of her mother's voice sounded pained as she beckoned Bella to her. Bella could plainly hear distress in her mother's voice, but she could not begin to understand the cause. She was playing in the sand as directed; close enough to be seen from her mother's chair, and yet not too near the water.

The hole Bella had dug was just deep enough to cover her shoulders. It should not have caused her mother concern. Thus, despite her mother's anxious tone, Bella gave little care to anything other than her swimming hole. She was quite pleased with her progress. The yellow metal pail and matching shovel she had been using to create her own private ocean were working out quite nicely.

For every bucket of sand that left her hole, the puddle at the bottom grew larger. This was exactly the result she wanted. If her mother would not allow her to go into the ocean alone, then she would bring the ocean to her.

Wet sand was stuck to every surface of Bella's skin. The only part left untouched was her curly brown hair. It remained sand-free solely because it had been tucked beneath a yellow rubber bathing cap.

_No matter_, Bella thought as she flicked her shovel, tossing another volley of sand.

On beach days, when they arrived home, all the sand would be rinsed away in the outdoor shower behind their apartment. Once she'd been cleaned, shampooed and neatly tidied, her mother would brush her hair until it softly curled around her fingertips. Then, perhaps, just perhaps, if she ate all her supper, her papa would take her for a walk on the boards. Bella liked going for walks after supper. It was fun to watch the seagulls scavenge for tasty morsels in the twilight.

Lately, papa didn't like to go out. The thought of it made Bella's tiny brow furrow. Her mother had told her more than once to let him be, that he was tired from his new job. Bella didn't understand why he was so tired, but she did notice his cracked and blistered hands when they sat together for their evening meal. Bella did not like the look of them, or the weariness in her father's smile. What she did like was the seashore. It was a much nicer place to visit than the park by their old home.

Bella's mother didn't like the new house, but papa's voice was sharp one night before they'd moved. He said that FDR needed every man to do his part or the Nazi's would take what was ours. Bella didn't like the thought of that. She liked her toys, especially her dolly and tricycle. She didn't want anyone to take them away from her, especially not the _Nazi bastards_ her father talked about.

_Come back, Bella, _her mother called out again. Her voice was pleading now.

With a huff that all of her five-year-old self could employ, Bella stood from her crouch and turned in the direction of her mother's beach chair. She was convinced that once her mother laid eyes on her, she could go back to making her ocean. Unable to spot her mother's chair, Bella's brows drew down in confusion. She began looking for her mother's bright green blanket, but that too was gone.

More concerned now, Bella tipped forward and reached for the crumbling wall of her pool. Wet sand dug between her toes and beneath her fingernails as she crawled out of her tiny ocean. Her knees, now coated in a fresh layer of sand, resembled the brown sugar her mother used to make gingersnaps. Shakily, Bella began making her way down the shoreline. Perhaps she just got turned around. Hope of that faded when she saw that all her playmates and their mothers were gone as well. The beach was deserted.

"MAMA!" Bella called out frantically. No one answered.

She dropped her pail but held onto her shovel. The cool, smooth metal in her tiny hand provided comfort against a rising tide of panic. Bella began to cry as she frantically searched. Her mother had once told her that if she ever got lost to go to an adult for help, but for as far as her little eyes could see, there wasn't another soul around.

"MAMA!" she cried again, her feet stumbling forward in the sand.

Convinced that if she walked just a bit more she would find her mother, Bella pressed forward. Every moment that passed without a glimpse of her, tightened the grasp of fear on Bella's pounding heart. Her voice was hoarse and cries for her mother began to catch in her throat. She used a sand crusted hand to wipe her tears but only succeeded in wiping sand in her eyes.

The salt burned and the sand scratched, but no matter how hard Bella tried, she couldn't manage to wipe the sand away. Abruptly she stopped walking for fear of heading straight into the ocean. She was blind from the sand and deaf to anything but the waves crashing behind her. Another cry died in her throat as sand invaded her mouth. Her thickened tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and she began to struggle for air. The sand was now scratching every part of her body. Struggling to breathe, unable see or call out for help, she lay helpless and frozen.

Terror ripped through her and, in her isolation, she imagined terrible monsters of the sea coming to drag her beneath the waves.

Suddenly, something touched her. Not knowing what it was she tried to shrink back, but her body would not move. She tried to scream, to call out for her mother, but no sound came.

The something touched her again; it felt gentle and warm. It wrapped itself around Bella's hand gently squeezed. Her mother had found her, had come to take her home and wash away the sand. Joy leapt in her chest. Bella wanted to call out to her, to move her fingers and squeeze her mother's hand in reply. She needed to see her, to open her eyes and find her mother by her side.

With every ounce of concentration she could muster, Bella focused on her eyelids. The sand scratched and burned but if she could _just_ open her eyes, she knew her mother would help her break out of this prison. It felt like she'd been entombed in the sand, buried so deep she couldn't move a muscle.

Fear gripped her hard, and once more the simple act of breathing felt as difficult as lifting an elephant.

_What do I do? _She cried from inside her head.

Coolness began spreading up her arm. It was uncomfortable at first but as it spread, the feeling of the burning began to fade. Her body relaxed and the blackness behind her eyes began to change.

In the quiet echo, she thought she heard her mother once more.

_Bella, open your eyes._

xxxXxxx

When Bella returned to consciousness, she was no longer a child lying on the beach but a grown woman, standing in the cool night air behind her father's house. Her eyes were closed and warm hands gently held hers. She giggled wondering what her beau, Eric, was playing at. They needed to get inside before her father came out after them. It was getting to be near nine, and her father had a sour temper if she stepped through he door after the start of _The George Burns and Gracie Allen show_.

Eric, who had moments ago told her to close her eyes, was silently moving around her. His voice was no longer coming from beside her but from beneath her. He squeezed her hands.

_Bella, open your eyes_

Bella blinked, adjusting her vision to the light of the streetlamp. It was shining down on Eric's smiling face as he knelt before her.

His hat was no longer on his head, but resting on the sidewalk beside him as he knelt before her, down on one knee.

Panic clawed at Bella's throat as her eyes settled on Eric's earnest face. She knew what he was about to say even before he said it. A life of pressed cotton handkerchiefs, afternoons in front of a stove, and white linen dinner parties flashed before her eyes. The black and white image of that life leached color from the one she'd imagined for herself. Bella had dreamed of going to college. She wanted to become a scientist. On the contrary, her parents wanted her to marry and settle down, obviously, Eric did too. Bella felt herself struggle for breath. An image of a pearl choker for their fifteenth wedding anniversary seemed like a hangman's noose waiting to be placed around her neck.

She was shaking, so badly that she feared her legs would give out from under her. The tremors were not from shaking legs, or hands for that matter. They came from the jerking movement her head was making from side to side. Wordlessly, and over and over she was telling him, no.

_ I'm so sorry, _she thought as she saw the confusion in Eric's eyes turn to hurt.

Bella had to go. She had to leave now or she'd never escape. Then her life would always be about what Eric wanted, what his hopes and aspirations were for their future. Walking away was her one chance to reach for the life _she_ wanted.

Without a word Bella stepped back and withdrew her hands from his. Her white-gloved hand covered her mouth as she spun on her heel and took off running for the house. She wept for the life she was leaving behind and in fear of being shunned for taking what she wanted instead.

It was dark on the other side of her family's front door. Bella expected to find the lights on in the front room and to hear laughter coming from both her family and the television set. There was no light, no sound save for the rapid beating of her heart.

Straining to adjust her eyes to the dark, Bella could swear that if she held her hand in front of her face she'd never see it. An unnerving prickling ran down her spine then branched out, covering her in pins and needles. It grew more pronounced by the second and began itching and burning from the inside out. It was the same torture she'd remembered from the beach. Inside her head she pleaded for mercy and begged for that cool feeling to spread through her arm again.

A sound echoed nearby, like the clip clap of woman's high heels on a linoleum floor. Bella felt a whoosh of air from her left side, frightening her. Unable to see, she was relieved to discover she could hear. A warm hand grabbed hers, squeezing it hard. The stranger's grasp was painfully tight. Bella wanted to pull her hand back but couldn't. The stranger's grip was so tight that it was barely surpassed by the burning sensation coursing through her.

A woman's voice, so loud it must have been only inches from her ear, screamed out a command.

"BELLA, WAKE UP!"

Bella's eyes flew open as if suddenly released from the bonds of her body's prison. It was the sheer shock of the woman's scream that forced her to obey the command. Her eyes opened without thought or conscious action, almost of their own volition. Although her eyes were open, everything was blurred around her.

"Bella! Oh my God, Bella! Can you hear me?"

Instead of being right by her ear, the woman's voice now came down on her from above. The screech of a chair across the floor was followed by a loud bang, as if it had fallen over in the stranger's rush to stand. Bella couldn't turn her head to see if that was what had happened. Her head was propped up just enough to see the fuzzy outline of a brown dress and shoulder length raven hair from the corner of one eye.

The voice was familiar. It didn't belong to her mother as she'd thought in her dreams. Bella's mind was so addled and disoriented she didn't know who it belonged to or where she was. The brown vision was gone then back. It moved so quickly, Bella could barely see the blur. A moment later static echoed from a speaker somewhere near Bella's head.

"Get Dr. Newton. She's awake."

_Newton…Newton. I know that name,_ but at the moment Bella couldn't place where or why she knew it.

All she really understood was that she was lying on her back, helpless. She was stuck, solidly glued to the bed, frozen in place. Her mind worked frantically trying to puzzle out her situation in a body that did not respond to her call.

_Oh my God._

Unbeknownst to the terror growing in Bella's eyes, the voice from the speaker finally answered the call. It quickly agreed to the brunette blur's request, saying that Dr. Newton and his staff were on their way. The raven blur pulled back. Lines began to sharpen, defining a chin and dark sunken blue specks for eyes. Bella felt her hand being lifted from the bed. The feeling of pins and needles eased when her hand was surrounded by the woman's warmth.

"Bella, it's me, Alice. Can you hear me?"

_Alice. Dr. Alice Whitlock, psychologist, Jasper's wife, Cyndi's mother. My friend…_

_My friend._

Bella could hear every word Alice had spoken. As more minutes passed, Bella's vision mercifully improved. The brown blur Bella had thought was a dress, appeared to be a bulky sweater covering Alice's thin frame.

"Bella, I'm Alice Whitlock, do you know who I am?"

At that moment, recognizing Alice was not the problem, responding to her was. Bella was starting to panic. Just as she'd been frozen in her dreams, awake she realized she could move nothing but her eyes. A nearby machine that had been quietly counting the beats of her heart screamed in alarm as her panic translated into an erratic heartbeat. Alice rushed forward, wanting to brush a gentle hand over Bella's head but froze mid action and reached for her shoulder instead.

"It's okay if you don't know me. You're all right. You're safe here. I won't let anything hurt you."

The last words were spoken with exhale of relief. Bella watched Alice's eyes lift to the ceiling then close in a semblance of prayer or gratitude. Before Alice could utter another word, a door behind her flew open and four bodies surged into the room. A form, Bella assumed to belong to Michael Newton, marshaled a group rushing to her bedside.

Alice was pushed firmly to the side as Newton began his ministrations. He barked orders to the staff surrounding him, ordered tests and called out numbers. He shined a bright light in Bella's eyes. Her reaction was immediate. Thin lashes slipped from beneath his fingertips allowing her to blink. Not to be deterred, Newton pried her eye open once more. This time holding it firmly as the light clicked on and off, dancing around the cornea and examining it for responsive dilation. Bella tried to squint and saw a movement through the shadow made by her lashes. That small reaction was the only one her body offered. Nothing else moved as Newton pressed, prodded and poked nearly every inch of her skin.

Once the temporary blindness from Newton's penlight faded, Bella found her vision clear enough not only to see faces but expressions as well. Even with cloudy vision, it wasn't hard to see Newton's brow furrow or his eyes squint when she didn't or couldn't respond. Bella had been a scientist long enough to know that look reflected a deviation from the anticipated result of testing a hypothesis. The more Newton prodded with no physical or verbal response, the more anxious Bella became.

The very real possibility of permanent paralysis clenched her heart, causing the monitor tracking it to sputter to life and screech in warning. All eyes in the room flittered to it and then back to Bella. Newton moved first. Calling out an order for a medication Bella immediately understood to be a sedative. The panic flared, her heart now thrumming wildly in her chest. The same cool fluid in her arm she'd felt in her dream reappeared and the light and people around the room began to fade. The last conscious thought Bella had before the dark took her, was one of strangled fear.

_My God, what have I done?_

* * *

**_I'm really looking forward to sharing the next chapter. Any guesses? _**

**_I'll post a sample on A Different Forest if you'd like to know if you were right. _**

**___Thanks for reading, _****___-FirstBlush_**


	7. Chapter 7

******Two chapters this week, enjoy****************!**

******As always, to my betas, thank you for making this better.**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Alice lay settled in the warmth of Jasper's body, resting her cheek upon his chest. One arm held her to him while the other lazily traced the slope of her back. Her breath was warm and heavy against him. Jasper frowned, although his wife's body was sated, he could tell her mind was not. Thoughts were whirring behind her closed lids, unable to find peace in the quiet.

"I thought you were with me during," Jasper said, his finger tracing the line of Alice's neck, "but you're far away now."

"I'm sorry," Alice answered, her voice was still raspy from sleep as she moved to get up.

"Don't," he whispered, tightening his grip to keep her by his side.

"Don't you think we should find out if Cyndi destroyed the kitchen in search of breakfast?"

Her tone was light but overdone—a sure sign she was still wrestling with a thought but was either unable or unwilling to talk about it.

"I think you should stay right where you are. Cyndi's fine. I can hear the TV, and I haven't heard her break anything yet."

"Yet," Alice drawled with a rueful grin. She was silent for a moment then turned her head so her chin rested on Jasper's chest. "I'm sorry," she said again.

Jasper smiled softly. He lifted his head from his pillow and kissed the top of Alice's head. A disarray of raven waves stuck up in all directions, tickling his upper lip and nose.

"Don't be sorry, unless you're trying to let me down easy. Something lacking in my performance this morning?"

In spite of her pensive mood, Alice snorted. It was unladylike and loud, exactly as Jasper liked her. To the world around them, Mary Alice Devonshire Whitlock was the consummate professional—neatly attired, with a fierce passion for her patients and her work. To Jasper, she was still the fresh-faced junior-editor of _The_ _Ohio University Post_, the bombshell he always wanted but was always afraid to approach.

Back in college, Alice wrote a human-interest column while Jasper tackled student activism. He'd watched her for an entire semester, stealing furtive glances across the copy room. Late one afternoon, while Alice was rushing to meet a deadline, he and his friends were goofing off and, well…acting like assholes. They'd struck up an impromptu game of toss in a room barely large enough to sit ten people.

Alice, oblivious to the game going on around her, was standing on tiptoe reaching for an extra toner to refill the copier. Under her breath, she was muttering about Murphy's Law and how things found the need to break whenever she was in a hurry. She still needed to change the toner, run a final copy and get it to the editor before the deadline.

Fate had other plans. One long overthrown toss of the makeshift football sent Jasper careening into the object of his desire. The force of the collision knocked the tiny co-ed completely off her feet. Alice was propelled, one arm awkwardly outstretched, to the hard unforgiving floor. A muted crunch followed, and a second later, she was crying out in pain.

The damage, a wrist fractured in two places, was reparable. The professional relationship was not.

Jasper felt horrible about the accident and the baby blue cast covering Alice's arm. In reparation, he became Alice's knight in shining armor—or her sheep dog, depending on your perspective. For the following six weeks, he drove her to school, helped with her homework and even folded her laundry (minus delicates of course). By the time Alice's cast was ready to come off, he'd finally gotten up the nerve to ask her out. The rest, as they say, was history.

At their wedding, Jasper's best man toasted the happy couple, announcing to all in attendance that most men need to twist a woman's arm to convince them to go out with them, but not Jasper. He had to break Alice's arm in two.

The toast was met with a roar of laughter, though Alice confessed she didn't see it that way. She'd kissed him softly, telling him she might have suffered a broken wrist, but got the softest heart in return. That had been almost sixteen years ago.

Although Alice's eyes now crinkled around the corners a bit when she smiled, that smile still did things to Jasper's insides. He sighed pensively, wishing he'd seen that smile more lately. It had been noticeably absent ever since Isabella Dwyer's surgery.

There were things Alice could tell him about the Mii project and things she could not. Alice, the consummate professional, held a tight grip on the bounds of doctor-patient confidentiality. A year ago, things changed when Alice was asked if she would become Isabella's medical power-of-attorney. It was something she would agree to only if Jasper were allowed full knowledge of the project. Isabella conceded to Alice's stipulation, and once Jasper signed confidentiality paperwork, he learned the full implication of Alice being involved with the Mii.

The reporter in him itched to dredge up all the facts, write a piece for his stick-up-his-ass editor and plaster it to the front page of the_ USA Today_. The cynic in him made him want to throw Alice over his shoulder and make a run for it while they still had the chance. The better part of him, the part that had vowed for better, for worse, reminded him of all the times Alice supported him even when he worked story angles she didn't like. And right or wrong, the husband part of him had won the day.

The part Jasper disagreed with was the steps they were taking to keep Isabella's surgery private. In his mind, there was only one way to describe what they were doing, and it amounted to fraud.

Isabella was defrauding the government by faking her death. You could put a pretty bow on it and call it science. You could say her old life had ended and a new life was beginning. In the end, it was fraud, and Jasper had a hard time accepting Alice's desire to be part of it.

He understood her drive to put her theories to the test but worried about the potential damage to Alice's reputation if not her medical license. Worst yet, there was a possibility of her being legally prosecuted.

They'd argued. Jasper wanted her to walk away, but Alice was both staunchly loyal and as stubborn as an ox. She had told him she'd never been a person who would leave a friend or a patient in need, and she sure as hell wasn't about to start now. In her mind, that was why they hired the attorney, Alistair Drake. It was his job to "limit their liability" and protect everyone involved, including Alice. Jasper was more than a bit skeptical when Alice said Drake was not only good at his job, but that he had the program's best interests at heart.

_His interests, more likely._

Whereas Alice placed her faith in Alistair, Jasper was the eternal cynic. Mopping up successes and claiming millions in settlements for cases won by larger firms didn't make Alistair a great lawyer, just an opportunistic one.

The worst part of being involved in this whole project wasn't just what it _could do_ to Alice's career, but what it _was doing to_ her emotionally.

Days after Isabella's "accident," Jasper held his wife as she cried over Isabella's casket. Alice wasn't making a display for the public viewing; she was truly mourning Isabella. At that point, there had been no sign of Isabella awakening and Alice's worst fears seemed to be coming to fruition. She was hysterical over the impending death of her friend, not by Michael's scalpel, but by her own hand.

The fear of having to pull Isabella's feeding tube had literally made Alice sick. For two weeks, she barely ate, and slept even less. Even their little girl, Cyndi, had asked why mommy was so sad. Despite Cyndi's young age, she was sharp enough to know something was gravely wrong with her mother.

Jasper told her what he could—that mommy's friend, Ms. Isabella, had died and that mommy was sad. Abstractly, he worried about lying to Cyndi but decided it was the most truthful answer he could give. For all intents and purposes, Isabella Dwyer, PhD, was dead.

What remained of Isabella was an old mind trapped inside a young body. From what Alice told him, little progress had been made since Isabella, now called Bella, had awoken from her coma two weeks ago. Bella could open and close both eyes, squint and blink. She could open her mouth enough to accept a spoonful of food and swallow but had little control over her jaw to chew. Without the ability to move her mouth freely, speech was difficult, making her sound like a drunken sailor. Thinking about Isabella's state reminded Jasper of a lightning bug caught in a glass jar. She was able to see, hear and sense things going on around her but was left banging against glass walls unable to break free.

No test Newton had performed so far could offer a concrete explanation for the paralysis. Neither could it say if the condition was permanent. It was more or less a game of wait and see. Each day Alice grew more worried about Bella, in turn, Jasper grew more worried about Alice.

"I think I'm going to hire a full time physical therapist for her," Alice said distractedly, her breath fluttering the hair on Jasper's chest.

She inhaled deeply; the movement pressed her bare chest more firmly against his. All cognitive thought left Jasper as a wave of desire rolled down his spine. He felt himself responding next to her and was certain she'd soon feel it as well.

"Each day she slips a little further into her depression," Alice continued, as yet unaware of her husband's reactions. "I've got to help her find a way out of it."

Time and place returned, extinguishing Jasper faster than a bucket of ice water thrown over his head.

"Alice," he began, his voice ringing with un-tempered reproach. "I don't know much about psychology, but even _I_ know that _you_ can't get a patient out of a state like that. They have to want it for themselves."

"I know that, Jasper," Alice shot back. "I know I can't _make_ her do anything, but I can try. Her world is so closed. Right now, the only people she has interaction with were part of the program. The last thing she needs is another person staring down at her and pitying her. What she really needs is someone who will see her as _Bella,_ who will push her to accept this new life and what she can gain from it."

"And you think a physical therapist will do that?"

"I think if I can find the right person, it will be a start."

"I guess it can't hurt, but promise me something, will you?"

Alice rolled onto her side, propping her head on her palm, so she could look Jasper in the eye. She waited. Jasper, knowing Alice as well as he did, and not wanting to injure her pride, was carefully choosing his words.

"What?" she bemoaned, frustration and impatience heating her icy blue eyes.

Jasper ran a hand down Alice's bare arm, tracing down her smooth skin and back up again. With a feather touch, he fingered his way along her collarbone until reaching back to tangle his fingers in her hair. His free hand reached up to cup her cheek. He loved her, every part of her, from her stubborn independence to her caring heart. He struggled to find the words to help her while his thumb smoothed over her cheek. She smiled, her ice melting with his touch, and turned to place a kiss against his palm.

"Alice," he called forcing her to lift her eyes back to his. "Don't lose _your_ perspective in the process of helping Isabella find hers."

**xxxXxxx**

"I want to see your interim clinical investigator."

"That's what I'm telling you Mr., I mean, Agent Swan. The project has been put on indefinite hold. There is no clinical investigator."

"Then who is in charge around here?" Charlie fumed. "I want to know what happened to the Mii project."

The flustered temp made a few more phone calls while Charlie stood impatiently at her desk. He wasn't leaving this building without some answers.

Angela Webber did not return the call Charlie had placed the morning after Dr. Dwyer's accident. In fact, Ms. Webber didn't return any of Charlie's phone calls. Calls to Dr. Dwyer's direct line went straight to a voicemail that indicated all inquiries during her vacation should be directed to her PA, Ms. Webber.

After two days of unsuccessful attempts to reach Ms. Webber, Charlie began working his way through the CGI phone tree. The main operator pushed him back to Ms. Webber's voicemail three times before he finally got her to send him to someone else on the project staff. He'd left another three voicemails for various contacts, but each one went unanswered. By Monday morning, he was banging on CGI's door only to be turned away by the security guard who informed him that the building was closed so that Dr. Dwyer's colleagues could attend her memorial service.

Another week passed before Charlie's patience had finally worn out. He'd been passed from person to person, none of whom had the ability to answer his questions despite the lengthy amount of time he'd been on hold. Finally, he picked himself up and made another trip down to CGI. He was pissed off and tired of the run-around. He'd camp out on their doorstep if necessary, but one way or another, he was going to get answers.

After a very impatient fifteen-minute wait, a thin man with tortoise shell glasses walked through the double doors and into the lobby. He introduced himself as John Varner, a junior scientist at CGI and former member of the Mii project team.

"I'll do my best to help you, Agent," Varner said, scratching his head, "but I doubt I'll have all the answers you're looking for—I was pretty far down on the totem pole."

"That's fine," Charlie gritted. "I'll start with you and work my way up."

Charlie ushered the man to a set of decorative but uncomfortable lobby chairs. The temp hadn't given him a badge to enter the building, so this would have to do.

"Who took over Mii after Dr. Dwyer's death?"

"No one," Varner said, shaking his head. "The project's been put on indefinite hold."

"Why indefinite hold? They've invested millions in this research. They can't possibly want to see it shelved. It doesn't make sense."

"Look, Agent Swan, right now, most of us are just happy to have been reassigned to new projects. No one wants to lose their job in this economy."

"The economy notwithstanding, Mr. Varner, just answer the question. Why aren't they fighting for this project? "

"There's nothing to fight for at the moment. The project is on indefinite hold because there is no CI, and even if there were, we'd have nothing for them to examine. We're not exactly shelving it because there's _nothing to shelve_. For our research to continue, we'd have to find a new donor and start the incubation process all over again."

Charlie sat dumbfounded as Varner's words sank in.

"They executed the clause," he mumbled to himself in disbelief.

Varner nodded.

"If you mean the addendum to the informed consent form, then yes. It was executed within days of Dr. Dwyer's death."

"Days? They destroyed decades of work within days?"

Varner shrugged.

"There was a signed court order."

"Why didn't they get an injunction to fight the order? This could have been tied up in the courts for years while they continued the research."

"Like I told you, Agent, I only saw a piece of the overall program. I was responsible for executing the order on certain stem cell samples I managed. The order was signed. I packed everything up according to protocol and packaged it to be transported with the other biomaterial being sent for destruction."

"Who gave_ you_ the order?"

"Dr. Newton. He was under Dr. Dwyer on a different part of the program."

"I want to see the order," Charlie commanded, like he was barking orders to a subordinate.

"I, uh…I'll get you a copy."

Varner stood shakily, but like a good soldier, he turned on his heel and headed back through the double doors. The chime of the automatic lock announced his temporary escape from Charlie's interrogation. Temporary it would be, because as Charlie scribbled notes on his pad, ten more questions sprang to his mind.

Ten minutes passed without hide or hair of Varner. Charlie rose from his seat, paced determinedly to the temp's desk and began demanding Varner's return. She halted his tirade with a hand to answer a ringing telephone and began frantically scribbling notes on a legal pad. When finished, she hung up the phone, ripped the paper from the pad, and handed it to Charlie.

"CGI management requests that the FDA make a formal inquiry for documentation by faxing the request to this number on official letterhead. Our staff will promptly review it upon receipt. Please include contact information at the bottom of the request. Typically responses are provided within forty-eight hours of inquiry and review. If for some reason we need additional time to complete the request, we will contact you at the number you provide."

The temp folded her hands neatly and placed them atop her desk. She smiled sweetly and glanced from Charlie toward the door. Charlie tightened his fist around the paper then turned and strode out of the building. His cell phone was at his ear before he even reached the asphalt.

"Demetri, it's Charlie Swan. Yup, it's been a while. I hope you still have all of your data clearance—I'm calling in a favor."

**xxxXxxx**

Alice tapped the pages of Maggie Barnes' resume and placed them neatly atop her pile. She'd been quite impressed with Maggie. Her credentials were astounding, as were the number of glowing recommendations from superiors and former patients alike. But credentials alone didn't make Alice want to give her the job. What Alice most liked about Maggie was her no-nonsense approach. The method was a lot like Alice's approach to the practice of psychiatry. And given Alice's dealings with Isabella, rather_ Bella_, in the last year, she was certainly going to need a firm hand from time to time.

"Excuse me, are you Dr. Whitlock?"

Alice looked up from her stack of pages into the green eyes of a man in his mid-twenties dressed in a full suit and tie. One hand clutched a black leather folder with a red University of Cincinnati Bearcat emblem, while the other held back his tie back as he leaned forward to catch Alice's eye.

Startled as much by the man's sudden appearance as his close proximity, Alice flew out of her chair, knocking her papers to the floor in the process. Instantly, the man was at her side, helping her stack and organize everything into a neat pile once more.

"Maggie Barnes," he said, handing the final three pages back to Alice. "She's a fantastic therapist."

"Um, excuse me?" Alice asked dumbly as she took the pages and stared at the fringe of dark lashes framing each stunning green eye.

"Maggie Barnes," he said again, this time with a nod in the direction of the papers Alice just placed into her stack. "I shadowed her when I started at the center last year. She's amazing with her patients."

"O-oh, yes," Alice stuttered, wondering how she was going to look Jasper in the eye later that night.

The young man ran a nervous hand through his auburn hair and stopped mid-stroke. He shook his head as if to chastise himself for mussing up his neatly combed hair then thrust one hand in Alice's direction.

"Guess that's not the best way to start off an interview, you know, bolstering the competition," he said with a smile. "I'm Edward. I mean, I'm Edward Anthony Mason, but most people call me Edward."

Alice continued to stare but made a hesitant attempt to place her hand in his.

Edward's brow furrowed, obviously a little confused by Alice's reaction, then quickly added.

"I believe my resume is trapped somewhere in that pile of yours."

Alice's eyes grew as wide as saucers as the dawning light of recognition hit her like a stout thwack to the head.

"I'm sorry for being so disorganized," Alice apologized as she scrambled through her papers. "Please, sit down."

"No, no," Edward said, quickly dismissing Alice's lack of functioning brain cells. "I'm a bit early, and I sort of snuck up on you."

He paused for a moment and then as though he suddenly realized how his words may have sounded, hastily added, "Not intentionally, of course."

"Of course," Alice said, taking a deep breath to compose herself. "Let's start over. I'm Dr. Alice Whitlock. It's a pleasure to meet you, Edward."

"Thank you, Dr. Whitlock. It's a fantastic opportunity to be here and discuss this case with you. I mean, it's not fantastic that the girl is hurt," he added with an abrupt shake of his head. "God, I sound like an idiot. What I mean is, the case my supervisor laid on my desk sounds very interesting. I'm happy to have the opportunity to speak with you about it."

Alice was trying very hard to suppress a laugh. "Good. I'm glad you're up for a challenge."

Once more, Alice ruffled through the papers until she found Edward's resume, placing it on top of Maggie's.

"Well, I'd like to start off by discussing my expectations for this position. As you know from the file you've been given, I have medical power of attorney for one of the patients here at Bethesda. She is the granddaughter of a dear friend of mine, and I'm looking to employ a full time therapist to oversee her rehabilitation." Alice paused and took a deep breath. "Her name is Bella Dwyer, and she has a long road ahead of her."

Alice shoulders drooped; though it had to be done, she hated mixing lies in with Bella's history. Edward squinted a bit as he studied Alice across the table, latching onto her unease. Perhaps he couldn't read people the same way Alice could, but he was obviously attuned to observing more than what one said with words.

"Bella was in a car accident about a month ago," Alice began. "She'd flown into town for the week to visit her grandmother, Isabella. On the drive home from the airport, Isabella lost control and drove them off the road. She died shortly after arriving at the hospital. Her injuries were severe."

Alice's words slowed at the end as she watched Edward's expression deepen with concern.

"Bella lost her parents when she was only seventeen, so the loss of her grandmother is particularly hard. She graduated from high school a year early. She's a very intelligent wo—young woman," Alice added hastily. "She was a freshman at Washington State when her parents died but remained enrolled in a school after they'd passed. She's been self-sufficient for several years, which makes her current condition all the more upsetting.

"Since you've read over her file, you know she's been paralyzed since she woke from a coma. You can read through all of her tests for yourself—I'm not a physician, but the way it's been explained to me is that she has feeling but no muscle control. The hope is that the paralysis is not permanent. That's where you come in."

Edward set his intense gaze on Alice. Deep in concentration, he seemed to be hanging on her every word.

"I've watched Bella's spirit fade over these last few weeks. I think she accepted the paralysis as temporary in the beginning, but little has changed since she woke up. She can swallow soft foods and blink but doesn't have much more control over her body than that. I think—"

It was almost impossible for Alice to express the one thing she'd been hiding from everyone but herself. Looking up at Edward, seeing his concerned expression as he waited for her to find her words, made her want to tell him what she was really thinking.

Alice swallowed hard, trying to find the courage to tell Edward what she'd always been too afraid to admit.

"I think she wishes she never woke up."

Edward dropped his eyes to the table and he shook his head.

"But her doctor doesn't have any reason to believe the paralysis is permanent," Edward said with a deepening frown.

"No," Alice answered. "He doesn't, but he can't explain why she's not improving, either. They had to remove part of her skull after the accident because there was so much swelling in her brain, but—" Alice abruptly stopped talking before she got into an area she couldn't explain. "I believe her doctor still expects her to have a full recovery."

"I guess Miss Dwyer doesn't share her doctor's conviction."

Alice shook her head.

"No, and that's what worries me the most. She's in there, but she feels trapped by her body. The rotation of therapists that come in to see her doesn't seem to help. I want someone dedicated to _her_. Someone who puts her first and does not just see Bella as part of his or her caseload. She needs to be someone's priority, not just a patient they fit into their schedule. There's more to it than just the physical damage her body's suffered. Right now she's just … _lost_."

Despite their awkward initial meeting, Alice was more honest with Edward, than anyone else, even herself.

"Am I … ?" Edward stopped, looking unsure of how to phrase the question. "I mean, is she receiving any other care beyond her physical needs?"

"Are you asking if she's seeing a psychologist?" Alice smiled at his roundabout approach. "I don't have to tell you the answer, but it's no. I'm responsible for Bella, and I'm there for her to talk to, either personally or professionally. I don't think she's ready for formal sessions, so when we do talk, it's at a pace she can handle. I expect that to change as her physical health improves."

_Assuming it does improve,_ Alice thought grimly.

"Okay, it's good to understand the background and what I'll be up against."

Alice internally grimaced. Edward didn't know the half of it, and that worried Alice, who wondered how this might impact Bella's recovery in the long term. She shook off the thought, trying to stay focused on the interview.

Edward's brow was furrowed. He was nodding to himself as though he were planning out an approach in his mind. Alice liked this—he wasn't acting overly confident about being selected for the position; he just seemed invested. Suddenly, the weight of Maggie's recommendations lifted against the strength of the young man's enthusiasm.

"Tell me about yourself, Edward. Why did you become a therapist?"

As if a sudden snap of fingers brought him back to the interview at the present, Edward sat up straight and reflexively smoothed down his tie with a nervous hand.

"I take it you don't wear ties very often," Alice said with raised eyebrows and a glance at Edward's nervous habit.

"Um, only when family functions require it. I'm much more comfortable in a set of sweats."

Alice couldn't help but look over the evidence of broad shoulders hidden beneath the finely pressed suit jacket.

"But to answer your question, I guess you could say I chose my career as a child. I was born with a birth defect and had been in physical therapy ever since I could remember." Edward's smile widened at Alice's confused expression. "You'd never know it today, but I didn't walk until I was almost four. I guess you could say I know firsthand how important a therapist can be, and I wanted to be that important to someone else."

Alice smiled softly at the earnest look on Edward's face and the conviction behind every word he spoke.

"What is your approach to therapy?" Alice asked. "What I mean is, are you a friend or more of a drill sergeant?"

It was difficult to keep the smile out of her voice as she imagined this shy mannerly man as a drill sergeant. In truth, the question was a serious one. Alice needed to know if Edward's philosophy would mesh with Isabella's strong will and Bella's fading of hope of recovery.

"I don't think you can have one approach that works every time. I've worked with firefighters and policemen who looked tough on the outside, but were as frail as matchsticks on the inside. I've also worked with kids battling cancer who had no more meat on their bones than a skeleton, but who carried enough determination to make you believe they were made of iron," Edward said fiercely. "Each person is unique, and his or her therapy should match the situation. I'm no pushover, but I'm not a drill sergeant either. Bottom line, my philosophy is this," he said turning both hands palm up in a gesture of blunt honesty. "I think you can see a light in someone's eyes. They're either in there, or the light's gone out and they've given up. I can't make a light when there's none there, but if there's the faintest spark, I'll find it and make it grow."

The look of quiet determination on Edward's face, as he spoke, said it all.

Alice heaved a sigh. Edward's youth had not failed him in his understanding of the human psyche. Alice knew all too well from her years of practice that success was as much derived by the will of the patient as the skill of the medical professional trained to help them.

"Edward, I'd like to know how you measure success. When do you know your work with a patient is done?"

Edward remained silent for a bit, considering Alice's question. When she'd asked this question, other candidates had described patient plans crafted for each person's specific situation and health status. It was the obvious response, but any therapist worth their salt could give that answer. Alice wasn't looking for a clinical answer; she wanted someone who would see Bella as a person, not a patient whose improvement could be measured against an outcome. She was Bella's friend; she cared for her beyond the bounds of a professional relationship and wanted a therapist capable of being the same.

Edward's eyes widened as though the real meaning behind Alice's question had suddenly come to light. He nodded once before giving his answer.

"There's a balance between someone's physical well being and their emotional one. Although my primary responsibility would be helping Miss Dwyer regain her physical independence, from what you've described, I believe you're looking for a therapist who can see and react to both. As to how I'd know when my work is done," he said with a shrug. "I imagine it would be when Miss Dwyer says she doesn't need me anymore.

"Now, measuring success is something completely different. I don't think success can be based on physical accomplishments alone. Sure, walking, talking and the ability to care for herself will be major milestones in her therapy, but success is when you look into someone's eyes and see that the fear is gone. Not every patient will walk or run again, but if they've come far enough that they look around at the life they have ahead of them and are ready to face it, to me, that's success."

Looking down, Alice examined the stack of resumes on the table. Each one represented a qualified, well-experienced therapist. Edward certainly had the education backing him up but had far fewer years of experience than some of the other applicants, especially Maggie Barnes. Alice pursed her lips and thought of Bella. It didn't take long to realize the decision had already been made. Edward more than made up for experience with heart and dedication. He was exactly what Bella needed, someone who'd give her everything he had to help her heal.

Alice stood and held out her hand to Edward to conclude the interview.

"Thank you for coming to see me today. It's been a pleasure, Edward."

"Thank you, Dr. Whitlock."

She didn't release her grip but smiled at Edward, adding, "I just have one more question for you."

"Yes?" he asked ducking down a bit so that he could meet Alice's eyes.

"How about we go meet your new patient?"

* * *

**Thanks for reading, and if you have a moment, let me know what you think.**


	8. Chapter 8

******I made some changes to the chapter after it came back from beta review. Any grammatical mistakes are mine. **

******To my betas, thank you for making this better.**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

A soft knock on the hospital room door announced another visitor. Bella tightened her jaw, wondering which of the roving members of Bethesda's staff had come to bother her this time. She could call out, or at least make a grunt in acknowledgement, but it didn't matter—they would enter either way. Her privacy was no more her own than the body she now inhabited.

Over the last two weeks, she'd been poked and prodded, tested and manipulated, despite the violent protests she waged in her mind. She would have wrenched herself away from their touch were it not for the fact that her new body had rendered her powerless.

Previously hidden expanses of frail, creamy skin had been exposed to her bit by bit through the medical staff's silent torture. Her legs now wrinkle-free, with taut, silky-smooth, skin, would still seem sickly and atrophied when compared to those of a normal twenty-five-year-old. The popsicle sticks that masqueraded as her legs were a mockery of the shapely limbs she'd had in her youth. Her feet were flat, like the comical pads of Flintstones characters. No amount of manipulation in the lab could have given the Mii the proper amount of definition or tone. The underside had no arch and no thinned muscle defined by standing, walking and flexing under the weight of an adult woman.

Her hands held similar characteristics. In one therapy session, she'd been forced to place her hands together palm to palm. The objective was to see if she could hold the position on her own. She couldn't. Her hands had unceremoniously fallen to her sides the moment the therapist released her grip. But in that brief moment where her hands touched, Bella felt the soft skin of one palm pressed against the other. The skin was as soft as a newborn babe's, not hardened or weathered as her own hands used to be. There was no callous on her middle finger from the way she'd held her pen and no beauty mark between her first and second knuckle. Also absent was the L-shaped scar across her thumb she'd received as a child when she accidentally cut it with a paring knife. She never thought she would miss that scar, but now that it was gone, the memory of baking pies with her mother and slicing fresh apples seemed unfairly stolen along with it. The fear that she would lose what was left of her sense of self was as paralyzing as the immobility forced upon her by her new body.

If Bella could have snorted, she would have. The thought of calling this _thing_ her body was morbidly comical. It was more of a shell than a body. The Mii was roughly the same size and shape she'd once been, but it wasn't _her_. All of the characteristics of her early life were gone. Her sun-kissed freckles and beauty marks ceased to exist, as the Mii had never seen the sun. Like any woman with an ounce of vanity, Bella thought she'd revel in her now flat stomach and cellulose-free thighs, but appearance was the furthest thought from her mind. The loss of her weather-worn skin and extra padding around her bones felt like a comforting blanket being ripped away. The newly exposed skin of her ribs and hipbones left her feeling as unprotected and vulnerable as a starving child.

As startling as this body was to see, what Bella found most disturbing was the sound of her new voice. A voice defined one's self almost as much as the lines that formed their face. Isabella's voice had been rough with age. It commanded attention when needed. It barked orders in the lab and echoed with intelligence and years of wisdom. The sounds vibrating off these pipes sounded like a five year old talking through a straw, leaving her feeling stripped of a right she'd earned long ago.

Little by little, an awareness of this new body siphoned off the achievements of the old one. The result left Bella feeling as limp as a scarecrow in both body and soul.

"Bella?" a voice called as the door cracked an inch.

_Alice,_ she thought grimly and contemplated closing her eyes and feigning sleep.

Asleep or awake made little difference to Bella. She lay as positioned by her caregivers, unable to roll into comfortable position at bedtime or stretch luxuriantly when waking from sleep.

_I suppose I should be thankful it's not Michael._

The reactions of Bella's body, or lack thereof, confounded Michael Newton at every turn. For all of his cocky pandering and overgrown ego, Bella's paralysis left his confidence visibly shaken. She could see it in his eyes every time he entered her room. There was an almost unhinged desire to figure out what went wrong, flashing in the depths of his eyes. He certainly would not allow himself to admit or even consider that his surgical skills could be the cause of her paralysis. Instead, he kept insisting that Bella would see improvement with time. By the end of the first week, Bella had tuned him out. His advice repeated like a skipping record on an old Victrola; _just give it more time, just give it more time._

The one mercy granted to Bella after regaining consciousness, was relief from the unbearable stinging sensations she had felt when she'd first awoke. The feeling of pins and needles still came and went, but those episodes were nothing compared to the agony she'd experienced.

The drawback of that one blessing was another curse. Freedom from that agony gave her time to think. In fact, thinking was about the only thing Bella _could_ do. She thought about her choice to undergo the surgery and questioned whether her paralysis was punishment for playing God with her natural life.

Her heart clenched at the thought of spending five or, _God forbid_, fifty years trapped like this. The notion of her every movement being made at the command of another person left her beyond depressed and nearing despondent.

A heavy weight settled on her when Alice called out a second time. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to be prodded. Most of all, she didn't want to be pitied.

Alice didn't wait for an answer to her second call and pushed the door ajar. She looked nervous as she tentatively stepped into Bella's room, and the sight of Alice's unease instantly set Bella on edge. Alice rarely appeared to be as anything less than confident and self-possessed, it was one of the many reasons the two women got along.

The moment their eyes met, a mixture of determination and relief spread across Alice's face.

"Bella, I'm glad you're awake," Alice called out cheerily as she took another step into the room.

Bella wanted to shut her eyes. The only thing more debilitating than her reality was being forced to stare into the face of someone else's false hope.

Alice didn't allow the door to swing closed behind her. Instead, she held it open, and a tall slim figure stepped through the hospital room door. Bella knit her eyebrows, trying to piece together the reason for Alice's excitement and the man in the navy suit and pinstripe tie standing before her.

He was young, well-polished and handsome. He carried a black leather folder, and if Bella didn't know better, she would have thought Alice intended to introduce her to a pharmaceutical rep. Bella had no need of drugs—her problems couldn't be magically corrected with a pill before breakfast and another at bedtime.

The young man, who in Bella's opinion wasn't much older than a boy, straightened his spine and stepped determinedly into the room as Alice made an introduction.

"Bella," she said softly. The sincerity laced in her voice called Bella to attention. "I've been thinking a lot about how to help you." She swallowed audibly, then set her jaw firmly and continued. "The professionals here at Bethesda are doing all they can for you, but I think there's a way we can do more."

Excitement flashed in Alice's eyes, compounding Bella's unease as she wondered what Alice or Newton had cooked up for her now.

"Oh, hear me out," Alice grumbled with mock agitation.

The corner of Bella's mouth quirked out of reflex, and Alice flashed a brilliant smile in return.

"This," Alice began while waving a hand in the general direction of the young man behind her, "is your new physical therapist."

All traces of humor left Bella's face. Physical therapy equated to two very similar but equally disturbing thoughts: frustration and pain.

Physical pain brought Bella to the surface of her thoughts, for in pain, she felt the bitter result of a prison of her own making. _She'd_ designed the Mii and now had to live with the consequences of that choice. Then there were the times when therapy caused something worse than pain: desolation.

No matter what the therapists asked of her, no matter how simple the task, she could never make her body do it. As the number of disappointments grew, the hope she carefully tucked away disappeared like scattered leaves on the wind. She was trapped, and the realization left her feeling as hollow and as empty as the shell she inhabited.

The young man stepped around Alice and moved toward Bella's bedside. He didn't speak at first, but the determination she saw in is eyes was enough to momentarily entrance her. She envisioned thoughts and questions simultaneously whirring behind those penetrating green eyes. There was urgency and excitement in there, like a potter about to reach for a block of unmolded clay. The man's gaze never left her face.

His hands were clenched at his sides, as if he wanted to examine her but wouldn't allow himself to touch her without asking her first. Bella rather liked that. Few people sought her permission or at least consent before laying hands on her.

He opened his mouth to speak but closed it and inhaled deeply, as though to settle himself. A small smile graced his lips, giving Bella the feeling of comfort and a bit of amusement. His ineffectual attempt to rein in his enthusiasm was a comical, all-be-it endearing, failing of his youth.

He squinted at her, and his smile began to fade. Recognizing that Bella's line of sight was narrow, and her inability ability to turn her head, the young man strode forward. He leaned down so that Bella could see directly into her eyes.

"I'm Edward," he began. He stopped mid-sentence and ran a smoothing hand down his tie, holding it back against his stomach. "My name is Edward Mason. Alice tells me you can speak a few words and you have some facial control. Can you blink your eyes?"

Bella answered by demonstrating her response.

"Good," Edward answered with an encouraging nod. "I'd like to talk to you for a minute, if that's okay. One blink will mean yes and two will mean no."

Normally, directions from members of the medical field were met with resigned acquiescence, but curiosity had somehow won her over. Bella responded immediately in spite of herself.

"Does that mean yes, you understand, or yes, it's okay if we talk for a bit?"

Bella's mouth quirked just a fraction before she answered. She deliberately blinked once then stared at Edward for a moment before slowly blinking again. Edward's smile widened.

"Good. Dr. Whitlock would like us to work together. She has offered me a position as your full-time therapist."

Edward paused, and Bella could feel the intensity of his stare. He was watching her eyes as his words sank in. Bella hardened her face until it was as unmoving as the rest of her. It angered her that Alice hadn't come to her first before going off and hiring someone.

Edward nodded as if Bella's expression confirmed something for him. He stood and took off his jacket, laying it gently over the chair at Bella's bedside. Then he loosened his tie. He pulled it away from his stomach and ran thumb over the pattern, tracing the angle of one of the light blue pinstripes.

"My mom gave me this tie before my first interview out of PT school." Edward's face lifted in a half smile at the memory.

With one quick swoop, he lifted the tie over his head, dismantling his perfectly styled hair. It shook off the pretentious image of a pretty boy, making him appear more human than the plastic lines drawn by hair and suit and tie.

Edward loosened the top button of his shirt as he continued.

"Mom said that this was a lucky tie." Another smile highlighted a bit of mischief in his grin. "She's been right so far. I guess I can only wait and see if it still holds."

Bella couldn't help but purse her lips a bit. It wasn't a full smile—she didn't have enough control to do that, but she appreciated the young man's humility all the same.

"With all due respect to Dr. Whitlock, she can think I'm the right man for the job, but what really matters is what you think. I can be a great therapist and have all the techniques and progression plans in the world, but that won't get us very far if you don't trust me."

_Yes, _Bella answered in ascent with one slow blink. _Finally, someone gets it._

Edward reached out and placed his hand atop of Bella's. She hadn't expected him to touch her, and although his hand was warm and meant to be comforting, her immediate reaction would have been to pull back her hand. She couldn't and didn't. Instead she closed her eyes, cutting off Edward's window into her thoughts.

The warm hand immediately left hers, and oddly enough, Bella felt more alone for it's absence. The sensation of loss felt strange and conflicting. In her old life, Isabella had been woman who prided herself on being self-sufficient. Now she felt quite alone while hiding in the dark recesses behind her eyes.

"Bella," Edward called, softly encouraging her to come out of her shell.

Never before had she experienced a longing for human connection. It was there now, and it felt as tender as a sore tooth. The quiet echo of her name brought the feeling to the surface of her thoughts.

Bella opened her eyes and blinked once.

_Yes?_

"I'd like the chance to earn your trust."

Bella often gauged people by their willingness to look her in the eye. Looking down or away immediately gave away someone's intentions. In her experience, that meant they weren't being forthright or were ashamed of what they were truly thinking. Edward's green eyes were clear and open, and after another moment of consideration, Bella gave him her answer in one purposeful blink.

"All right. For me to help you, I need to see how your muscles work, how stiff your joints are, how much muscle tone and feeling you have. At the same time, you don't know me, and allowing me to touch you makes you feel vulnerable. Am I right?"

_Yes._

"I'd like to try something. It's not something I've done before, but I think it will help in this situation. I'll start by telling you a bit about me, and you in turn can let me learn a bit about you. That way it's a give and take, and we're both a little more and a little less vulnerable together. Would that be all right?"

Edward appeared somewhat tortured and anxious as he waited for her answer. It reminded Bella of a time when Boy Scouts had waited at the end of the grocery store checkout lines. They'd all looked so eager to help the old ladies bring their bags to their cars to earn themselves a merit badge for citizenship. Bella didn't want to see the current set of eager eyes staring at her fall in disappointment. So once more, she swallowed hard and blinked.

Edward's answering smile was almost enough to ease Bella's discomfort—_almost. _She watched as he stood up straight and relaxed his shoulders, rolling them a bit. He unfastened and dropped the cufflinks from each of his wrists into his pants pocket then proceeded to roll each of his sleeves to the elbow.

His forearms were strong and well-toned. He was a healthy-sized man and although obviously fit, his encouraging smile made him appear less intimidating.

Sufficiently unhampered by his formal clothes, Edward turned back the corner of Bella's bed sheet and gently lifted her arm by the elbow and wrist. His brow furrowed as he took in the sight of her pale skin and thin bone structure. Even to Bella's well-accustomed eyes, the sight of her new skin was startling. The blue lines of veins looked practically markered down her arm against the nearly translucent skin.

"Even as a young child, I always felt I had something to prove. I can remember being as young as five, and chasing the other kids on the playground knowing I wouldn't be able to catch them."

Bella's eyes left her arm and focused on Edward. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he flexed and manipulated each joint of her fingers and hand. He immediately stopped his ministrations and looked down at Bella.

"Does this hurt?" he asked, concern marring his fine features.

Bella blinked twice. _No._

"Can you cough?"

Thoroughly confused by this request, Bella stared blankly.

"I need you to signal me somehow if something I do hurts you. So I figured a cough would be a plain enough signal to stop."

After taking as much air as she could into her lungs, Bella managed a few attempts at a cough. It was a weak and pathetic sound, but Edward seemed thoroughly pleased.

"Perfect."

With that settled, he went back to his ministrations and continued with his story.

"I didn't want to be different," he said with a shrug. "There was one red-haired girl, who wore her hair in braids. We used to swing together during recess. One day, I tried to kiss her," he said with a grin and another half-shrug. "You would have thought I'd punched her in the stomach. She kicked me and then took off running for the jungle gym. She climbed to the very top—she knew she'd be safe from me there."

Edward paused as he rotated the elbow in and out, like he was slowly flapping a chicken wing. It didn't hurt, but it felt odd. He stopped when the range of motion ended to examine Bella's face. When he didn't see anything of concern, he continued.

"I couldn't climb up after her. My legs weren't strong enough for that."

"Wh-_i_?" Bella asked.

Plainly shocked to hear her voice, Edward froze mid-motion while testing the flexibility of her triceps. Though Bella's voice was muffled and shaky to her ears, it was distinct in the quiet of her room. Edward's smiled broadly, seemingly pleased to hear her voice.

"I didn't walk until I was almost four. Birth defect," he added with yet another shrug. This time, it made Bella wonder if the shrug was from nerves or if it had something to do with his birth defect.

Once finished with Bella's left arm, he gently placed it back beneath the covers and walked around the bed to reveal the right. He glanced down at her thin arm but appeared to not really see the pale skin before him. His thoughts seemed to be far away. A chagrined smirk appeared on his face for a fraction of a second before he spoke.

"My first school dance was when I was twelve."

The words startled Bella, who wanted to know more about his birth defect. From the look of him, Edward was a stone-carved image of perfect health.

Oblivious to Bella's careful scan of his features, Edward continued on with his story.

"It was sponsored by the Knights of Columbus. I remember it being pretty dark, with lots of kids. We were all about the same age, sixth-to eighth-graders. As you'd expect, the girls were all on one side of the room and we were on the other. The music was loud, and you couldn't hear a thing unless someone was screaming it in your ear."

Edward was massaging the tendons of Bella's forearm just below the wrist. It was so relaxing, she couldn't help the soft exhale of relief from escaping her lips. Finally, _something_ felt good.

Edward immediately stopped and looked up to read her face. With one eyebrow hefted, he asked if she was okay.

_One blink._

With an extraordinary amount of professionalism and control, Edward managed not to smirk. Bella appreciated his effort.

"So of course, after about twenty minutes, they put on a slow song," Edward went on. "The guys were all elbowing me in the back. I took the dare, bravado making me brave. I walked up to the first girl who looked at me and asked her to dance. She was pretty, and I was nervous, but she followed me into the middle of the floor anyway and put her arms around my neck."

For just a split second, Edward shut his eyes and pursed his lips. Bella thought he looked embarrassed, as if about to admit some mortal sin. He shook his head in that same deprecating manner then continued.

"They'd always play two slow songs in a row. Everyone knew that, it meant a girl liked you when she danced both of those with you. I was more than a bit surprised when the first one ended and she didn't let go. She just pulled me tighter and put her head on my chest. I could feel her breath through my button down, and it didn't take but one second for my body to react. I about died on the spot, terrified that everyone in the room could see what was happening to me, no matter how dark it was in there. I shoved her away from me before she could feel it for herself and took off in the opposite direction."

Edward looked absolutely mortified, and Bella worked hard to suppress a snort. She wasn't as good as Edward was at holding back emotion, and he noticed. If she were able to do it, Bella would have been shaking with laughter at the image of a young boy fleeing the scene.

Edward lowered his jaw to one side but kept his lips pursed together as he lifted one eyebrow sardonically.

"Oh, it gets better."

He covered her arm and moved to the end of the bed. In one quick motion, he un-tucked the sheet and blanket before folding it back to reveal an emaciated leg. Bella swallowed in mortification, and Edward quickly continued with his story.

"It was cold outside, and I'd left my coat indoors when I took off. It was more important to get the hell out of there than to worry about being cold."

He ran a hand along her ankle, then calf and shin, pushing until the leg bent and her foot rested flat against the bed.

"I remember leaning against the brick wall and gasping for breath after my run through the building. I was sweating and my ears were ringing from the loud music. My guts were in nervous knots."

Bella's ankle caught as he rolled it in a circle, and she coughed in response. Apparently, Mii's flexibility exercises didn't work that particular range of motion, and she was now paying the price for it.

"Sorry," Edward whispered.

"G-_on_," Bella murmured back, wanting to take the focus off her wretched body and get back to his story.

"I was now sweating like a pig, and gasping for air, it wasn't long before my stomach joined the fight. It took about two seconds for all the punch I drank to come back up, along with my dinner. I was covered in puke from my knees to my shoes and had to call my dad to come pick me up. There wasn't anyplace to hide when he pulled up, and by that time, the dance was letting out. I had to get in the car looking like that in front of everybody. The worst part was explaining it all to my dad on the drive home. I honestly think it was the longest drive of my life. Twenty minutes feels like an eternity to a twelve-year-old boy who's trapped in a car getting the birds and bees talk from his old man."

At this, Bella did snort—unable to stop it.

Edward sighed and covered the leg.

"Not all my stories are funny," he warned as he lifted her other leg. "I made it through junior high all right and was pretty good at sports by the time I got to high school. I was co-captain of my basketball team," he said in a joking tone of self-importance. "It doesn't mean much now, but it was a big deal at the time."

His brow furrowed slightly when he hit the same click in Bella's range of motion. He was testing the rotation of her hip when he came to a stopping point. Bella could tell the roll of the joint stopped much sooner than he'd expected. His eyes lifted to hers with concern etched over his face.

"Does it hurt?"

Bella blinked twice in response.

"Can you feel anything here?" he asked. His voice was gentle, but she could hear a tinge of concern laced in his tone.

Edward was running the edges of his nails in a gentle scraping motion over the top of her thigh. The think fabric of her hospital gown didn't mask the sensation, and suddenly the spell of easy conversation between them was broken. Bella was back to being immediately aware that she was neither Edward's friend or his confidant; she was his patient. Her paralysis, the product of a procedure of her own design, made her at the complete mercy of his, or anyone else's, whims. Bella shut her eyes in frustration, and used her voice to answer his question.

"Ysss."

The lack of muscle control made her biting response come out in more of a hiss. The frustration over not being able to do anything as she intended, set her on the edge of tears.

Though Bella couldn't see his face, she heard Edward's quiet exhale and the soft curse that followed. He was trying to help her. She knew that, but it didn't erase her feelings of desolation and helplessness.

She was pitiful; her wretchedness had made more than one member of Bethesda's staff leave her room in such haste, that it was painfully obvious that they were glad to go.

Knowing this, Bella was startled when she felt Edward's hands leave her hip and move down to her knee. Once there he paused only briefly, before picking up his story.

"It was pretty typical to go out after a game to either celebrate or sulk, depending on the game's outcome. We'd meet at an abandoned warehouse that was only a few miles from school. The place was made of cinderblock and didn't hold a prayer of catching fire from the small bonfires we lit behind it. On this night, we were actually celebrating beating the crap out of our cross-town rival."

Surprised by the fervor in Edward's words, Bella opened her eyes in time to see the smile of pride light his eyes. His smile widened when he saw Bella's eyes on him again.

"I got in three good picks that sent their forward bouncing across the hardwood on his ass. He was a jerk, always running his mouth, and he deserved it," he added with a grin.

Edward ran his tongue over his lower lip as if tasting the memory.

"It came to blows just before halftime, and he got in a good punch. It split my lip but got him tossed out of the game."

Edward hefted his eyebrows with mischief, indicating that it was something he'd said that incited the fight.

"Anyway, my jaw hurt like hell, and the booze helped numb it a bit. We were drinking whatever we could get our hands on from home or that an older brother could buy for us. _Mad Dog_ was the drink of choice. If you've never had the stuff, you're not missing much. Nobody drinks it for the taste, just the quick high."

His tone indicated doubt that Bella would have had many drunken nights to her name.

Bella swallowed, anxious as to where this particular story would lead. She was once more fully entranced and hanging on Edward's every word.

"I stayed long enough to where the buzz wore off and I thought I could drive home. There were plenty of back roads between the warehouse and home. It would only take about ten minutes. The radio was blaring, and I was reliving the final minutes of the game in my head. I never saw a thing."

His hands stilled, and he seemed to need a moment to gather his words.

"I hit a deer. More like a full-grown buck. The impact sent me off the road and totaled the car. I wasn't hurt," he added quickly sensing Bella's widening eyes upon him. "I had a few bruises from the seatbelt, but that was it. An elderly man who lived nearby came running down the road to see if I was okay. I think he was expecting to find me dead from the sound of the crash.

"The buck's blood was all over the road and the front of the car. I had to watch the thing struggle until it finally bled out." Bella felt Edward's shudder as it passed down his spine and through his fingertips. His regret was evident in his downcast eyes and slumping shoulders. "If I wasn't sober before, I sure as hell was after seeing that. The old man called my folks, and I remember my dad hugging me when he arrived. Everyone thought it was an unfortunate accident. They were just happy that I was okay. I never told them I'd been drinking, and to this day, I don't know if I just wasn't paying enough attention to the road or if a waning buzz caused the crash."

He looked up at Bella with the pleading earnest eyes of youth.

"I don't drink if I've got keys in my hand, _ever," _he said firmly_._ "I had nightmares for months after the crash. I kept imagining it wasn't the buck I had hit, but someone I knew. I was lucky as hell, and although I haven't been perfect by any means, I don't take my life or mortality for granted any more."

Bella had to look away. It wasn't that she'd forsaken her mortality, but after what this boy had been through, he probably wouldn't see her choice the same way she did. He seemed like someone living his life to the fullest, not working to thieve more time. For the first time, Bella felt the bitter taste of shame over her choice.

"So that brings us up to today," Edward began with a high twinge to his voice. Bella's eyes returned to his. He was looking away, as if holding something back. If it were possible, she would have knit her brows, wondering what could be left for _him_ to confess.

"I'm going to get you a drink of water. I'll be right back," Edward announced as he made a beeline for Bella's adjoining bathroom.

A movement from the corner of her eye brought Bella's attention to the back of the room. Alice stood from her perch in the corner and made her way quietly to the door. Bella had completely forgotten she was even in the room.

Alice pulled on the door and slipped to the other side, pausing only to mouth the word, _Tomorrow, _with a quick wave. Then she was gone. A split second after the door shut, Edward re-emerged, carrying a hand towel. He raised Bella's bed to a comfortable angle, and then filled a glass on the bedside table with water.

Bella watched as he wrapped the towel around the glass then sat on the edge of her bed. One warm hand cradled the back of her head while the other lifted the towel-wrapped glass to her lips. She slurped at the liquid, like a newborn unable to find its mother's milk. Her jaw worked in disjointed movements with her lips and tongue, sloshing more liquid onto Edward's towel than probably made it down her throat. His thoughtfulness made her heart clench. It would have been so much harder if he'd had to clean her up after making a mess and dribbling down the front of her gown.

He was patient as he held her head, and after several long minutes of effort, she'd managed to get a few gulps down. Edward patted her mouth and chin dry with a kind smile then set the glass on the table, never leaving his spot on the edge of her bed.

For a moment, he said nothing, silently reading her without words or questions. She could feel his eyes drilling right inside her, silently asking if he could help pull her out of her darkness. He licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak but took another second to try and see the images she kept guarded behind her eyes.

"I see you, Bella Dwyer. Not what your accident has done to you. I see _you_."

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and Edward lifted his hand catch it. There was no pity in the way he was looking at her, no placating expression on his face. He simply saw _her_. She could not wipe her own tears, so he did it for her. He was thoughtful enough to both help her, and leave her with some semblance of her pride.

Edward stood and grabbed his jacket off the chair by Bella's bedside. A small smile curved his lips as he tucked the tie into his back pocket. He turned back to Bella, and she bit back a sob. She'd been in an apathetic daze for weeks and suddenly, this boy's kindness had stirred her from that slumber. Now that she was awake, she felt an unnerving fear of the dark.

"You're not alone," he said solemnly. "Together, we'll bring you back."

He patted her arm softly then turned to slip through her door.

"Get some rest, Bella," he said softly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

**Thank you for reading. **


	9. Chapter 9

******Hope everyone had a great weekend.**

******As always, to my betas, thank you for making this better.**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

_It doesn't make any sense._

Edward's head throbbed, blurring the lines of text before him like the stripes of a zebra. Raucous laughter was coming from the TV in the next room. The sound echoed, piercing his thin veil of concentration like a set of thrown darts. Edward ran his fingers through his hair, trying desperately to cling to his train of thought. With an angry sigh, he called out in frustration.

"Kate, can you turn that down?"

He heard her impatient huff; then, a moment later, the volume eased to a garbled hum.

Their apartment didn't leave much room for quiet or privacy. It was a small two-bedroom place, with a living room, one-and-a-half baths and a kitchen. The second bedroom, originally intended to be an office, was filled with the remnants of his college life and bachelorhood. At the moment, he wished he had tossed all that junk when Kate had asked him to do it. An office with a closed door would have been a much quieter place to pour over his texts.

Edward let out a frustrated groan, not only over being unable to find the answer he sought in the tiny black print, but also for the reason why all his crap remained piled in the room down the hall. Deep down, in a place he didn't discuss, was the fear he'd need them again.

Edward and Kate had dated for two years and been living together for the last eight months. He saw the living arrangement as a trial run before getting married. _She_ saw it as a way to share living expenses so that he could get out from under his college debt.

Beneath the mask of compromise, she wanted a ring and he wanted more time.

At twenty-seven, Edward should have been ready to take the plunge, but a nagging voice in the back of his head said otherwise. The hesitation on his part to make it official didn't make sense to his parents, her parents, Kate, and at times, even himself. She was smart, funny, beautiful and _way the hell_ out of his league.

Kate was a pharmaceutical rep for MERK and very good at her job. She had a way of drawing people to her—with long blonde waves and bright blue eyes, she could attract a group of followers on looks alone. Beyond her good looks and subtly flirtatious smile, she had the uncanny ability to make the most insignificant person in the room feel just a few inches taller when they had her ear.

It was a talent that few people had, and many admired.

That was how they had met. After a bit of prodding, and the promise of both free food and alcohol Edward agreed to join his fellow graduates to a MERK holiday party. Kate, one of MERK's local rising stars, had been given the task of entertaining recent grads from UC's Raymond Walter's School of Physical Therapy. Similar to the guys there that night, Edward had been drawn to Kate like a moth to a flame.

When Edward had been introduced as the young man who'd landed a lucrative position at Bethesda North, Kate weaved her way through the other wide-eyed grads to sidle up next to him.

He'd been dumbfounded that the leggy blonde wanted to talk to him, and with one blink of her flirtatious lashes, he too had fallen under her spell.

For all of her charm and beauty, Kate had one well-hidden flaw behind her pretty smile: _ambition_. Not that there was anything wrong with ambition, per se—Edward knew firsthand that ambition could be a good thing. It had given him the motivation to get through school while working hourly jobs and volunteering at the hospital. Kate's ambition, however, was different. She wasn't ambitious only for herself but for the people around her.

She wanted to be at the top of MERK's list of young sales reps. She wanted to see her sister, Tanya, graduate at the top of her class in vet school. As for Edward, she wanted him to have his own physical therapy practice. Working for one of the most prestigious physical therapy facilities in the area was good, but it didn't seem to be quite good _enough_. She had a few not-so-subtle ways of letting him know Bethesda was just a stepping-stone to something better.

That alone was enough to make Edward worry. For his part, Edward had had a rare upbringing. Even to this day, his parents remained happily married, as had his aunts and uncles. It had set a standard, one he aspired to achieve himself. He wanted to marry only once, and to accomplish that; he had to be sure.

"I'm going to bed," Kate called from the entrance to the kitchen. "Are you gonna to be much longer?"

"Probably," he sighed, plopping his elbows on the table and digging his hands into his hair.

Edward didn't have to turn to see the grimace on Kate's face. She'd been thrilled to learn about Edward's new position and how it came with a sizeable increase to his current salary. At the same time, he'd had the feeling that the extra hours the position required would likely become a bone of contention.

"Where are you stumped?" she asked, tiredly plopping down into the chair beside his.

Edward rubbed his hands over his face but answered her nonetheless. Kate was sharp and knew enough about physiotherapy to hold her own.

"The girl is as white as a ghost," he began with a frustrated sigh. "Her muscles show _months _of atrophy rather than the five weeks that have passed since her car accident. Nothing in her medical record suggests she's had any kind of long-term illness to demonstrate these symptoms," he added, waving in frustration at the papers encased in Bella's file.

"Didn't you say she was in a car accident with her grandmother?"

"Yeah," Edward said, shaking his head in an effort to focus his looping thoughts. "Her grandmother died in the crash."

"Did they crash coming back from the airport?"

"Yeah, that's what Dr. Whitlock told me. How did you know that?"

"It was all over the news, the story of a grandmother dying in a crash and nearly taking her granddaughter with her. Besides, the grandmother worked for CGI."

Edward's head was spinning with the knowledge that Bella's grandmother had worked for his uncle.

"MERK's been keeping tabs on Dr. Dwyer's research for years," Kate continued despite Edward's blank expression. "Back in the early eighties, she isolated the gene that caused Anencephaly."

"Anencephaly? The birth defect that inhibits upper level brain development?"

"Mmmhmm." Kate mumbled, stifling a yawn. "Look, Edward, if your patient had to take a flight to see her grandmother, then the likely reason you're not finding much is because the files are at whichever hospital was treating her outside of the tri-state. Just ask permission to have them transferred here."

Edward lifted his eyes from the papers to meet Kate's. He pulled her face roughly to his and gave her a searing kiss.

"You're a genius, baby. Thank you."

Kate flushed a little then stood, gently placing one hand on Edward's shoulder.

"You're welcome. Now come to bed."

Edward turned his head and kissed her hand without moving his eyes from the pages on the table.

"I will. I'm just going to look over a few more things before I turn in. There's got to be something I can find in here to link to her symptoms. She reacts to stimuli. I know she can feel it when I touch her, but she has no muscle control. It's like she's trapped inside her skin. I wonder if an illness could have contributed to it."

Kate sighed, sounding as though she knew the battle was already lost. She teasingly ruffled his hair.

"Don't be too late, okay?"

"Mmmhm," he mumbled noncommittally.

The lights in the living room blinked off one by one, as Kate headed to bed. Aside from the darkening next room, Edward didn't take much notice. His eyes searched the pages before him, trying to find possible causes for Bella's symptoms. Her tiredness, bruising, bone pain, and headaches could have easily resulted from her head injury as a long-term illness.

Edward ran his finger down the page while mentally checking off the other symptoms: infections, fever, swelling of the abdomen, face and arms, coughing, trouble breathing, seizures, vomiting, rash, bleeding, loss of appetite. None of which had been presented when he'd examined her or had been reported in her charts after she'd regained consciousness. Still, Edward had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind as he continued down the list of symptoms for childhood leukemia. The pale skin, anemia and low weight all seemed to tip the balance. He'd have to get a hold of her other medical files to know for sure but was convinced she'd had a major illness.

Thinking back to his interview with Dr. Whitlock, Edward was even more convinced. She'd introduced herself as Bella's medical power of attorney. Why would a young woman like Bella need to have someone making decisions for her medical care other than because she was once too ill to make decisions for herself?

The thought of Bella wasting away in illness hit him like a punch to the gut. Helping her crawl out of the aftermath of a serious accident was one thing—doing it with the looming fear of relapse was another. He shut the book and rose from his seat, rubbing his tired eyes. The mess on the table could wait for the morning.

After extinguishing the kitchen light, Edward stumbled blindly toward the bedroom. He knocked into the coffee table, sending several of Kate's magazines to the floor. Sighing, he stooped and grabbed what he could find. The fumbling and lack of direction felt eerily similar to his attempt to diagnose Bella.

As his eyes adjusted, a bit of moonlight passed through the sheer curtains at the window, providing just enough light to see by. After righting the magazines, Edward found himself at the window staring through the creamy veil. The street below appeared leeched of color, as did his hand as it traced the sheer line. He was absently distracted by how his skin's snow-white color practically mirrored Bella's. His hand stopped halfway down the fold.

_Leukemia,_ he thought grimly.

Edward shook his head. More than anything else, he prayed he was wrong.

**xxxXXXxxx**

At nine-twenty the next morning, Edward strolled through Bethesda North's first floor rotunda. Though he wasn't scheduled to be in Bella's room until ten, he wanted to see if he could catch Dr. Whitlock first. Hopefully, she would give the OK to get Bella's full medical files.

The entire situation got under Edward's skin. If Bella were in remission, then why wouldn't Dr. Whitlock have mentioned it during the interview yesterday?

A wisp of white hair caught Edward's attention, pulling him from his thoughts. He turned just in time to see a woman at the gift shop counter snapping a black box purse shut and reaching for a bouquet of fresh flowers. Edward skidded to a stop then backtracked, jogging over to the tiny store.

"Aunt Ezzie?"

All the patrons of the little shop turned in his direction. Edward closed his eyes like an embarrassed child hoping to hide behind his lids. He'd never grown out of the habit of calling his aunt by the same name he'd used since he was five. If he could have dug a hole and crawled inside, he would have.

"Edward?" Esme asked with a wide smile. "Sweetheart, how are you?"

She tossed her gloves over her purse and opened her arms to envelop him in a hug. Cellophane crinkled in Edward's ear as the delicate yellow roses were sandwiched between Edward and his aunt.

"I'm fine. What are you doing here?"

"Oh," she said, looking over the roses. "I'm here visiting an old friend."

"That reminds me," Edward said, his aunt's mention of an old friend triggering a recollection of last night's conversation with Kate. "Do you know a Dr. Isabella Dwyer? She worked at CGI."

Esme's happy-to-see-you face paled to the point where Edward thought she might need to sit down. Deciding not to take any chances, Edward took her firmly by the arm.

"Did you hear me, Aunt Esme? Are you okay?"

Edward asked the question more than once and grew increasingly more worried when she didn't answer. Her eyes looked dazed, unfocused and well beyond him.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Alice Whitlock walked briskly through the rotunda, holding her little girl by the hand. She saw Esme and was about to call out to her when the look of fear chiseled in the lines of Esme's face stopped Alice in her tracks. The black leather folder with a UC Bearcat emblem held by the man directly in front of Esme answered her unspoken question.

_Edward._

Alice murmured a word she hoped her six year-old daughter couldn't hear, then hurriedly strode the rest of the way through the main hall. She didn't stop when she reached the elevators and didn't let go of Cyndi's hand until they were safely on their way to Bella's floor.

**xxxXXXxxx**

"Yes, darling, I'm fine," Esme breathed, appearing much calmer now that they'd left the atrium.

Edward wasn't as easily convinced. He took her pulse again, despite her protests, and vehemently refused to let her out of his sight until she drank a glass of orange juice from the hospital's cafeteria.

"Really, Edward, I'm fine, though I appreciate your company all the same," she said, patting his hand. "I wish you would come out to the house and see us more often." There was a bit of reproach layered in her tone, but she softened it by adding, "So, tell me what's new with you."

A smile spread over Edward's face at Esme's efforts to guilt him. If he were being honest, it _had_ been a while since he'd been out to see her and his Uncle Carlisle. The visits he'd made weekly had become almost non-existent by the time he entered grad school.

There was a simmering tension between Edward and his uncle. It had eased over the last few years, but hadn't dissipated entirely. Despite the discomfort, Edward knew how much his aunt appreciated having him out to the house. She'd often said that watching Edward grow had eased the pain of losing Noah.

"I'm fine. In fact, I'm great," Edward replied. "I just got a new assignment. I'm going to be a full-time therapist for a patient here," he said with a wave indicating the hospital around them. "I was a little surprised I got it—there were a lot of PTs vying for it. The pay is a sizeable step up from what I could get at either here the hospital or working part time at Parkside."

Edward was about to call for help as he watched the blood start to drain from his aunt's face again. Esme shook her head to dispel whatever was bothering her, but it didn't make Edward rest any easier.

"That's fantastic, honey." Though Esme's smile was genuine, her overly cheerful tone was unlikely to dismiss his concern. "Does your uncle know?"

That question stopped Edward in his tracks.

"I don't think so." He paused, wrinkling his brow, then quietly asked, "you don't think he used his influence to help me get the job, do you?"

The knowledge of how Carlisle had helped Edward into PT school rankled him years after the fact. Edward certainly hadn't leaned on any family connections when he'd applied at Bethesda North two years earlier.

"No," Esme said, placing her hand over his to reassure him. "Your uncle knows you want to do things on your own. He wouldn't have interceded on your behalf."

Edward stared uneasily at the table, still wondering if his uncle did have anything to do with his new position.

"Edward," Esme called gently squeezing his hand. "I only asked because I think…" She paused, seeming to carefully choose her words. "I don't think you should tell him just yet. Your uncle loves you very much, but he might not be capable of keeping his nose out of your work. He wants you to do well, and unless you want a lot of unsolicited advice, I'd keep this between us for now."

It was easy to see Esme's logic; if there was one thing Edward wanted; it was to manage the difficult case completely on his own.

"I agree."

Edward looked at his watch and jumped up from the table.

"I have to run. Are you sure you're okay, Aunt Esme? I could take you to the resident's lounge to rest for a while then take you home after lunch."

"Don't be silly, Edward," Esme said, fingering one of her gloves to avoid meeting his eyes. "I'm fine, although I would love to see you again. Will you come see us at the house? This Sunday, maybe?"

He laughed, and she smiled in return. Esme wasn't subtle in her attempt to get him to come to dinner and they both knew it.

"It depends on how things go with my patient. I have to run, but I'll call you tomorrow and let you know about Sunday. I want to talk to you about CGI, anyway."

His aunt smiled warmly and waved him off, but Edward could see the smile was forced. He took off in the direction of the stairs but couldn't resist looking back once more to assure himself she was okay. Esme's eyes were raised toward the ceiling as one might do if they were making an appeal for divine intervention. Surprised to find Edward staring at her, Esme sent him off with a flick her wrist. The last he saw of her was another forced smile, as she mouthed the word, _shoo_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

"Remember, you can't run around, Cyndi," Alice warned. "My friend, Bella, is hurt, and we're going to visit her to help make her feel better. I want you to be on your best behavior, okay?"

"Okay, Mommy."

"Good."

Alice took a deep breath to settle her nerves then knocked swiftly on Bella's door.

_"m-in," _Bella replied in the garble that had become her voice.

She was sitting upright, staring blankly at the television when Alice pushed through the door with little Cyndi in tow. Beneath a navy blue wool coat, the little girl wore brown tights and a brown top with a huge pumpkin covering her belly. Bella could see a turkey popping out from behind the pumpkin with the words, _Eat your vegetables!_ in a bubble pointed at its mouth. Completing the puerile ensemble, Cyndi's brunette curls were arranged in pigtails that flopped elastically as she bounded into the room.

"Hi, I'm Cyndi. I'm here to make you happy!" the little girl announced before she even made it past the hospital room door.

Bella didn't want to smile. She didn't want to laugh; she was still angry with Alice for bringing in a therapist unannounced last night, but no amount of anger or frustration could withstand the indomitable force of little Cyndi Whitlock. The precocious little girl beamed light from the inside out.

A snort of amusement erupted from Bella, alerting little Cyndi to her presence. The little girl froze mid-hop and stared at Bella with wide, fearful eyes.

Alice was still coming through the door and practically toppled over Cyndi, who remained frozen a mere foot from the doorway. Bella caught Alice's frown as she herded her daughter further into the hospital room. Like Bella, she'd obviously expected the normally outgoing little girl to march right up to the bedside. Cyndi looked away, hiding her face in her mother's pants as Alice peeled off her coat and hat and deposited both on the chair at Bella's bedside.

"Come on, Cyndi, it's okay," Alice said, turning back to remove Cyndi's fearful, vise-like grip from her leg.

Bella's breath caught against a hard lump forming in her throat. Though she had yet to see her new face in a mirror, it was obvious that she frightened this beautiful little child—the same girl that had once smiled so greedily at the candy Isabella offered her from her purse. In that moment, nothing could make her feel like more of a monster than the white face and wide eyes of a little girl who was too afraid to even look at her.

"Cyndi," Alice called again, reproachfully this time, but still the child only burrowed further into her mother's smart woolen slacks.

A single tear dripped down Bella's cheek. Cyndi's reaction confirmed she was worse than Frankenstein's monster; at least Frankenstein hadn't done this to himself.

Alice scooped up her child and slumped into the chair beside Bella's bed.

"Cyndi, you're being silly," she said, smoothing a hand over Cyndi's plump, pink cheek. "This is my friend, Bella. We came to make her happy, remember?"

Cyndi cowered against her mother's shoulder. The only indication that she'd heard Alice was the way her gaze flitted warily between the woman with the bandages covering her head and her mother's finely-pressed shirtsleeve.

"Does it really hurt?" Cyndi shyly asked from the security of her mother's arms.

The innocent question of concern sent more tears streaming down Bella's face.

_Did it hurt? _God, yes, it hurt. It hurt knowing she could never go back to her old life and would be forced to live this half one for who knew how long.

Alice juggled Cyndi on her lap and reached down to pull a tissue from the confines of her purse. Cyndi watched Bella curiously as her mother tended her. All of a sudden, little Cyndi, who had more compassion stored in one brunette ringlet than most adults, gathered her courage and crawled up onto Bella's bed.

"Don't worry," she said, in a soft comforting voice she'd obviously learned from her mother. "My mommy's a doctor. She'll fix you right up," she added with an air of confidence well beyond her years. "Mommy," she said, castigating her mother for her lack of action. "Come on, _fix _her."

With tissue in hand, Alice continued to wipe Bella's wet cheeks. She wore a small smile and an undisguised look of concern. The resemblance Bella saw between mother and child was so startling it was almost comical. The miniature version of Alice's face was mirrored in Cyndi's.

"I'm trying," Alice whispered softly as she continued to wipe Bella's tears. She looked right at Bella, as if imploring her not to give up. "I'm trying," she said once more.

A fresh wave of tears ran down Bella's cheeks, overwhelmed as she was by the emotion brimming beneath Alice's plea. Hiccups followed the tears, and soon after Bella began struggling to catch her breath.

A half-second later, Edward pushed through Bella's door, either concerned by the ragged coughing or by the fact that no one had answered his knock. He flew to Bella's bedside and deftly moved her into a fully upright position. Alice dropped Cyndi into the chair beside the bed and rushed to help Edward by supporting Bella's opposite shoulder.

_"m-fine,"_ Bella finally managed between the dissipating coughs.

Once Bella was able to take an unrestricted breath, Edward left her bedside to retrieve a towel-wrapped glass of water from the bathroom. He held it up for Bella to drink, dodging sprays of water from her final sputters. After she was finished, he gently lowered her back down and wiped her neck and chin of the remnants of her drink.

"What happened?" he asked, peering between Bella, Alice and the wide-eyed little girl.

"Edward?" Alice asked. "Would you mind taking my little girl, Cyndi, down to the vending machines to get a drink? I need to talk to Bella for a minute."

Edward looked reluctant to leave at the moment, but Alice's solemn nod relayed a need for him to trust her. He shifted his pursed lips to one side of his mouth and gave a curt nod. Alice turned to her handbag to offer money, but Edward waved her off.

"I've got it," he said. He looked over at Bella, who seemed more tired and worse for wear than yesterday. "I'll be back in a minute," he added reassuringly.

Bella forced one corner of her mouth to lift in a half-smile and tried to mouth _thank you _back at him. He smiled at her effort then opened the door for the little girl.

"No soda," Alice warned as Cyndi skipped toward the door. Her step faltered and her buoyant skip turned into the overdone act of a dead man walking. A huge pout covered her face as she made her way toward the door.

"Don't worry," Edward whispered conspiratorially. "I think they have strawberry milk."

For a child impatient enough to have to sprint to the vending machines, the bouncing brown, bundle took an awfully long time deciding what she wanted once she got there. Cyndi weighed the decision between chocolate and strawberry milk with the air of a congressman debating between voting with his conscious and what would get him re-elected.

With the vote finally cast, the pair sat companionably on a set of plastic chairs, with Edward sipping chocolate milk and Cyndi, strawberry.

Cyndi, whose legs were too short to reach the ground, swung them back and forth high above the height of her seat. Edward worried she might just knock the milk right out of her hand.

"Are you a doctor?" Cyndi asked bluntly with one imperious eyebrow raised.

"No, but I help people who are hurt get better."

"Ooooh," Cyndi nodded sagely. "You going to help mommy's friend, Bella?"

"Mmmhmm, I'm going to try."

Cyndi didn't seem to like this answer. She furrowed her tiny brow and fixed Edward with squinted eyes and pursed lips.

"Daddy says that "_I'm_ _trying_,_"_ sometimes, but he usually says that when he's tired. Then he sits on the couch with his arm over his eyes. I think he likes playing hide-and-seek, but he's not very good at it. I can still see him under his arm, you know." She shook her head, as if to announce how stupid adults could be sometimes. "When he hides like that, I have to tickle him until he comes out from his hiding spot. Then he tickles me back until I can't breathe. He's a bad hide-and-seeker but a good tickler."

Cyndi paused, looking at Edward to make sure he was paying attention. He had the distinct feeling this little whisper of a girl was sizing him up.

"Are you a good hide-and-seeker or a good tickler?"

"Both," he answered with a wry grin.

"That's good. Mommy's friend, Bella, looks like she could use a good tickle to make her smile. She looked hurt pretty bad when she was crying earlier."

"I saw that," Edward said quietly. "Do you know why she was crying?"

Little Cyndi took another swing at her milk and thought hard.

"I think it was because she couldn't get out of that big bed and play with me, but it may have been because someone took all of her candy away."

Edward was more than a bit puzzled by Cyndi's train of thought but chalked it up to the whimsical mind of a young child.

"I think you might be right."

"I usually am," she said sincerely before breaking into a fit of laughter. "Daddy says that all the time and it makes Mommy's eyes go all crazy. She looks really funny when she does that. You should ask her to do it for you."

The two of them laughed and took mirrored swigs of milk.

"Did you know I'm going to have my birthday party at Hills and Dales Park? We're going to have cake and ice cream and a huge piñata, and we'll play games and I'll get lots of presents."

"Oh yeah, when's your birthday?"

"June 26th," the little girl beamed.

Edward laughed, realizing Cyndi had little sense of time, since her birthday was almost eight months away.

"Ready to go back?" Edward asked, holding out a hand to help Cyndi off the plastic chair.

Cyndi turned away from Edward's proffered hand and whispered under her breath.

"I don't like her bandages. They're scary."

"They do look kind of scary," Edward admitted, "but she needs them to help her get better."

Looking up with all the innocence of her age shining in her blue eyes, Cyndi asked, "Is she really hurt bad?"

Edward nodded solemnly, and Cyndi's brow furrowed once more. She was quiet for a moment then turned decidedly, making her pigtails swing to and fro.

"I think she might not be scary once you take off the white stuff. She has pretty eyes. Mommy says you should see what's inside where someone's heart is. That's what makes them a nice person."

"I think your mommy is very smart."

"Duh," Cyndi answered with a sarcastic roll of her eyes. "She's a doctor."

It was too hard not to laugh. Edward's shoulder's hunched as he stifled his snort. The little girl was a riot.

"I'm sorry, of course she is. She gives good advice."

"What's _a-vise_?"

Edward shook his head, coming to the sudden understanding of what Cyndi's dad meant when he told her she was _trying_.

After a brief explanation of "advice", Cyndi let out another loud _oooh_.

"I'm glad you're going to help Mommy's friend," Cyndi said at last. "She looked sad. I'd be sad too, if I was in a hospital all by myself. Maybe, if we both try to be her friend, she'll be happy again."

Edward smiled at the little girl. Despite her age, she seemed to have a fairly good grasp on Bella's situation. Bella was alone. She was hurting. More than likely, she was most afraid of not getting any better.

"Sounds like a good plan, Cyndi," Edward said, offering her his hand once more.

"My friend, Annie, was my friend in kindergarten," Cyndi babbled on as they walked back down the hall. "Then when we got to first grade, she wasn't my friend anymore. Mommy says a good friend will always be your friend no matter what and that lots of people can be friends, but it's more important to be a good friend."

By this point, Cyndi was hopping from one linoleum square to the next, trying hard to only land on the dark ones.

Cyndi was still on the topic of friends when they reached Bella's hospital room door.

"I want to be a good friend, not like Annie," she said with conviction.

Edward pushed open the door to find a pair of haunted eyes staring back at him. They reflected fear, longing and a hidden pain he was determined to somehow heal.

"Me too, Cyndi," Edward said softly, not allowing his eyes to leave Bella's face. "Me too."

* * *

**Thanks for reading and offering your thoughts. - FB**


	10. Chapter 10

******As always, to my betas, thank you for making this better.**

* * *

**Chapter 9**

"So tell me, how's Kate doing?"

This question from Edward's aunt Esme was almost as uncomfortable as the last one.

"She's fine," he mumbled.

Edward lifted his head from the lunch set before him and thought better of his answer. No one could make him feel more chastised from one look than from his aunt Esme.

"She's at a conference in Lexington this week. She decided to stay the weekend to catch up with a couple of her college roommates."

Esme frowned disapprovingly as Edward lifted the French dip sandwich to his drooling mouth. He withered under her baneful look and reluctantly set the warm, aromatic sandwich back on the plate. He sighed knowingly, and lifted his eyes to meet hers, facing the proverbial firing squad like a condemned man.

"We've been fighting lately."

Recognizing her slow nod and a hefted eyebrow as further invitation, Edward resigned himself to elaborate just enough to satisfy his favorite, although intrusive, aunt.

"I've been putting in a lot of hours at the hospital and she's not happy about it. I told her it was my job, and that she'd been all for it when I'd mentioned the increase to my paycheck."

Esme sat back and folded her arms across her chest.

"You know you don't need the money, Edward. Your uncle and I—"

Edward cut her off before she could finish.

"I know you and Uncle Carlisle could pay off my loans. I know my parents could help, too, but I want to do it on my own."

A shrewd expression flashed across Esme's aged face.

"That's not it," she protested, giving Edward a reproving look that reminded him of his elementary school nuns. "Don't try to snow me, Edward Anthony. You may be older than Noah, but I had enough practice with him to read the signs."

Edward looked away guiltily, knowing what it cost his aunt to bring up Noah. When he finally met her gaze he saw the flicker of an old pain wavering across ancient eyes. He swallowed hard and reached across the table to take her hand.

"You're right," Edward said contritely. "I'm sorry. The truth is that Kate and I are good together, but I need time to be sure."

Esme's face softened with his words. She took a deep breath then placed her free hand on top of Edward's. They stayed silent for a moment as Esme comfortingly traced her wrinkled fingers over the back of his hand.

"Edward, I want you to be happy," Esme said at last. "You're the one who has to live with this decision. You _should_ be sure and you should take the time you say you need, but be a man about it," she added, lowering her voice and tightening her grip on Edward's hand. "Once you know your heart, act on it. Don't lead the girl on if marriage isn't what you want. It's unfair, it's what a coward would do, and you my boy, are no coward."

Esme sighed and released Edward's hand with a final squeeze.

"Looks like your uncle got held up," she sighed, lifting her napkin from the table and draping it across her lap. "Might as well eat."

Edward smiled, the quick change of subject signaling that the inquisition was over. He greedily lifted the sandwich to his lips and asked a question that had been niggling him for two weeks just before taking a huge bite.

"Did you know Isabella Dwyer?"

The sandwich tasted every bit as good as it smelled and he hoped that giving his mouth something to do wouldn't give his curiosity away.

If his question surprised his aunt, she didn't show it.

"Very well, actually," Esme replied, poking her fork around the Caesar salad on her plate. "She worked for your uncle for many years."

Edward wanted to ask more, but what could he say? _I'm treating her granddaughter, Bella. Can you tell me anything about her?_ The dictates of his profession as well as HIPPA laws prevented him from disclosing the name of a patient.

He was just about to take another bite when Esme launched into her next round of attack.

"Tell me about this new patient of yours."

Edward swallowed, feeling the large bite stick in his throat before slowly easing down his gullet.

_This is why I don't come to visit._

"You know I can't tell you anything specific only generalities," he said in an effort to deflect her inquiry.

"Oh, of course darling," Esme said, waving a hand dismissively. "It's just that you seemed so excited when I saw you at the hospital _two weeks ago_. I figured you'd have something to report."

"Subtle, Aunt Ezzie," Edward laughed through his next bite.

"Subtle I am not, lonely, I am."

Edward let out another laugh.

"Isn't Uncle Carlisle going to retire soon? You won't be lonely once he's here all day and not missing lunch to run to the hospital."

"Your uncle and I will likely kill one another once he retires, but that's neither here nor there. Stop stalling and tell me."

Esme's eyes flashed with impatience. This time, Edward was the one to sit back on his chair and eye her speculatively. Upon second glance, Edward didn't see impatience; he thought it was something else. Perhaps pride. An unnerving thought ran through his mind.

"What's Uncle Carlisle been telling you? Has he been checking up on me? Is that it?"

Even he could hear the anxiety in his voice at the thought of his uncle intruding upon his professional affairs.

"Your uncle does not know about your patient because you said it was a good idea to keep him out of it," Esme assured him. "I know you want to build your reputation on your own, and I respect that. I suspect your uncle will, as well, when you do eventually decide to tell him."

Edward had the good sense to look sheepish.

"I'm sorry. I'm still a bit sensitive."

And he was. To this day, Edward hadn't gotten past his uncle's attempts to pay his way into PT school with a significant family donation.

"You would have gotten in anyway," Esme soothed. "You know that."

"I do, now, but I didn't back then."

They sat in silence for a few minutes both stewing a bit over old hurts. Edward was the first to extend the olive branch.

"She's doing really well."

Esme looked up with the question written across her face.

"My patient," Edward elaborated. "It's only been two weeks but she's made a lot of progress." Edward thought for a moment then added, "She doesn't think it's enough but _I'm_ happy she's improving. Even little steps, like improved speech and control of her facial muscles, mean that she hasn't hit a plateau. Those are hard to help patients through. It's so frustrating for them when they work hard and don't see any improvement. Luckily we're not there right now. I don't think she'd handle it very well."

"Why's that?" Esme asked. Deep-drawn lines of concern etched her face.

"She's had a tough life. I can't go into specifics, but I think she feels very alone. I keep putting myself out there for her, but I think she's afraid to open up to me. Maybe she's afraid of getting hurt or losing someone else."

Edward's brow wrinkled, and he pursed his lips together.

"Forget I said that. I really shouldn't be talking about a patient."

"Edward," Esme began. "You're a good man, and you're a good judge of things. Trust your instincts. If you think she feels alone and afraid, then she probably is. Maybe she needs a friend as much as she needs a therapist. The real question is, what do _you_ want?"

With that last question, it became obvious Edward's aunt wasn't talking about his patient anymore. He pushed it aside, not wanting to get into a discussion about Kate again.

"What ever happened to keeping a professional distance?" he countered, deliberately dodging Esme's question. "Detachment is essential to being objective and effective—that's one of the first things they teach you as a therapist."

"You, my boy,"—Esme snorted indelicately—"are not one for detachment. Besides," she said, grinning widely and primly wiping her mouth with her linen napkin, "how do you think I met your uncle?"

**xxXXXxx**

"Nice PJs."

Bella looked over at Edward from her elevated position on her bed and replied with a loud frustrated huff.

"Cyndi," she answered, infusing a mock growl into her voice.

The attempt failed miserably and a huge smile spread across her face. With a visible effort, she stifled her grin the added,

"And her _mother_."

This time, the attempt at disdain worked. To Edward, the word _mother_ sounded like a hell-of-a curse.

"Aww, but they're cute," he said, flicking one of the smiling penguins that dotted Bella's pajama sleeve.

"Cyndi said they were happy. _I_ think her mother gets a kick out of torturing me."

Bella glanced down at her penguin-covered stomach then deliberately rolled her eyes.

"The woman was smart enough to have her daughter present when she brought these things. It's impossible to look into that little face and tell her exactly how much you hate pink, let alone pink with _happy_ penguins."

"I don't get it," Edward said, laying his coat on the chair beside Bella's bed. "Don't all girls like pink?"

"I'm not a g—," Bella began but quickly held her tongue. "No," she answered instead.

Edward shrugged, but smiled privately. Though Bella was discouraged that she hadn't gained control of any of her limbs yet, Edward saw the improvement in her speech and jaw muscles as a major accomplishment. It gave her the freedom to tell people what she was thinking. He hoped it helped her to feel a little more in control, or at least a little less trapped.

"Well," Edward said jovially with a clap of his hands. "Since you're already in such a happy mood, let's get your favorite thing out of the way."

Bella groaned, causing Edward to smile.

"That's right, hip flexor stretches. Your range of motion sucks."

"Is that a clinical term," Bella asked indignantly, "sucks?"

Edward screwed up his face in mock contemplation.

"No, not clinical," he said, rubbing a forefinger over his bottom lip, "but accurate."

If looks could kill, Edward figured he'd be six feet under in a flash. In one reproachful look, Bella could assume the persona of his old sixth-grade teacher. He laughed it off while Bella rolled her eyes.

"I'll be right back."

Edward left the room to grab the customary heat packs for Bella's large muscle groups. Starting off with heat from the cloth covered packs made stretching easier and a bit less uncomfortable for the patient. Minutes later, he reemerged carrying four tan terry covered packs like a pizza delivery boy. Once they were in place and the timer on his wristwatch set for ten minutes, he laid out his plans.

"I'll sweeten the pot for you," he said, taking in Bella's dour expression. "We'll play a game to take your mind off the stretching."

"A game?"

"Well, sort of. We're going to do a word association. I say a word and you have to say the first thing that comes to your mind. But it's not going to be anything easy, like day-night or green-grass. These words will really make you think and take your mind off what I'm doing."

_I hope._

Edward had carefully planned this exercise, hoping to get behind Bella's protective wall a little more. She trusted him as her therapist, but at times, he'd unknowingly say something and immediately feel her defenses rise up. He didn't want that discomfort for either of them and kept working on little ways to help her open up.

"Ready?" he asked.

This was the question he asked before every session. It was his way of making sure she wanted to be touched. He was seeking her permission and her commitment to giving him her all. He waited, searching her eyes for the flash of determination he'd seen settle on her face before they began.

She took longer today, as if the weight of slow progress wore on that determination. Roughly five weeks had passed since her accident and Edward wondered if it was the progress or the impending Thanksgiving holiday that had further dulled the light in Bella's eyes.

Cyndi, Dr. Whitlock's little girl, was the one who could often get a smile out of Bella. But every now and then, Edward said something that made her laugh and all of the thoughts clouding her expression seemed to vanish, if only for a brief instant.

The ravages of a month long hospital stay coupled with whatever she had survived in early childhood, at times made Bella look gray and lifeless. It was the distant look on Bella's face that made Edward more determined than ever to see her back to health.

Edward cocked his head to the side, still waiting for Bella's response. The movement lifted her from the trance of her thoughts and she blinked once, giving him her answer. She didn't need to do that anymore since she'd regained control of her voice, but still used the signals when anxious thoughts or emotions made her choke on her words.

Instead of reaching for the sheet to uncover her legs, Edward took Bella's hand in his and squeezed it lightly. The power of a comforting touch was something he learned early in his could mean encouragement, sympathy, or understanding. Sometimes it just let the person know someone cared. More than anything, Bella needed to know that people cared; _he _cared.

He'd had a few patients who had lost family members as Bella had. Recovering from physical injury was enough of a challenge without the added burden of having witnessed a family member's death. Beyond that hardship was the fact that she had no family to support her. Even to Edward, who was used to heavy burdens, the weight seemed too much for one young woman to bear.

It could have been Bella's situation that made him sympathetic to her, but it was more than that. He was invested in her. Alice had said Bella needed a friend, and although that was true, Edward believed what she really needed was a reason to get better. A belief that someone was waiting for her to pick up her life and move forward with all the things she was meant to be.

Edward smiled softly. He didn't know if he'd be able to give her that, but it wasn't going to stop from him trying.

"You okay?"

"M-fine," Bella choked with a half-smile.

Her words lapsed into mumbles when emotion got the better of her. Edward nodded and squeezed her hand a little harder.

"You're not yet," he said gently, "but you will be."

He released her hand and took back the covers, exposing both the heating pads first and then her penguin-covered legs. Even beneath the fabric they looked thin and atrophied and the sight of them didn't do much to bolster Bella's mood.

"It won't get any better by sitting here and waiting for it to happen," he chastised. "It doesn't work that way."

There was a time for comfort and a time for a good kick in the ass. Right now Bella needed the latter.

"Let's get it over with," she said with more confidence in her voice.

"Atta girl," he grinned.

Edward began with massage and normal range of motion extension from foot to hip. When he'd finally worked enough blood into the extremities, he was ready to move onto the tougher stretches.

He lifted Bella's left knee then rotated it out to the side, trying to get it perpendicular with the bed. As usual the joint had little range of motion, convincing Edward that now was as good a time as any, to give his game a go.

"Steam," he said,

"Wha?" Bella asked through a groan.

"Steam, I said. Now what's the first thing that comes to your mind?"

He applied a little more pressure to the leg, and Bella blurted out, "Earl Gray."

"Earl Gray?" Edward asked adding still more pressure before releasing the tension, rubbing the joint and beginning again. "Why Earl Gray?"

"Tea," Bella answered gritting her teeth. "Earl Gray is the kind of tea I drink."

Edward nodded and filed the tidbit away for future reference.

"I started drinking it years ago," Bella added without prompt. "A colleag—," she stopped. "A friend introduced me to it when we were studying. It helps me think."

"I like Red Bull, myself."

"Carbonated high-octane caffeine? Do you have any idea what's in that stuff?" Bella asked derisively. "One of the main ingredients is Taurine, used in contact lens solution. When _I _need a pick me up I get a cup of coffee, not something that could send me into tachycardia."

In slow motion, with eyes widened, Edward pulled back to examine Bella's expression. He was dumfounded, wondering how Bella came to know the clinical term for caffeine intoxication. Edward blinked, shaking his head to clear his stunned expression.

"That's only happens you drink something like five cans of it. In moderation it's a great way to stay awake if you're up late studying."

"You wouldn't need to be up late studying if you were smart enough to prepare in advance."

"Well, what's the fun in that?" Edward said with a grin.

Bella lifted one eyebrow; apparently, she wasn't one for procrastination. Edward could easily imagine her as the type to organize her notes by color and laminate her study guides. He snorted at the thought.

"All right, how about stop sign?"

"Stop sign?"

"Don't think, just answer."

"Ticket," she said, gritting through her clenched teeth.

Edward released her leg and eased the muscles with a soothing massage.

"Ticket? You? Come on, I find that hard to believe. You don't look like the rule-breaker type."

"I have several tickets to my name that say otherwise."

"Bullshit."

"The one for running the stop sign was legitimate," Bella said with a gust of air as Edward leaned forward, adding additional leverage to the stretch. "I didn't see it." She had to pause and take another breath before continuing. "The last two speeding tickets were also earned, but the one I got for turning left on red was a complete miscarriage of justice. The guy in front left me hanging in the middle of the road. I had to turn."

The prospect of Bella earning multiple traffic offences left Edward frozen in mid-motion. The girl was more surprising from one moment to the next. A range of images worked through his mind as he tried to piece together the nature of the woman before him.

"You're a lead foot?" he asked incredulously. "And not just any lead foot, one who's reckless enough to get caught frequently? That's hilarious. I thought only teenage boys got caught."

"It was the car," Bella replied in a derisive manner, making Edward look up from his work.

"Oh yeah? What kind of car?"

"A Mustang."

There was pain in Bella's voice; he'd heard it as plain as day. For a brief moment, he caught a glimpse of regret in her expression before she closed her eyes, effectively cutting herself off from him.

"Can we talk about something else?" Bella quietly asked while rolling her lips between her teeth.

Her voice had trembled at the end making Edward feel like an ass for having brought up anything to do with driving.

_What kind of idiot makes a girl who lost her grandmother in a car crash talk about cars?_

"Of course. I'm sorry, that was really stupid of me."

Bella opened her eyes and gave him a weak smile.

"It's okay. It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I'm still an idiot. Do you want to stop for a bit?"

"No," Bella said confidently. "You were right—the game helps take my mind off the stretches. What else do you have for me?"

He eyed her warily then bent down to resume his work.

"Elevator."

Bella let out a laugh and Edward couldn't help but stop to look up at her again. A good smile on Bella Dwyer's face was worth the price of his humility.

"Come on, what are you thinking?"

"Cary Grant."

"The old actor? Isn't he dead?"

"Yes," Bella said dryly. "Old doesn't necessarily mean bad, Edward."

"No, but it means old."

"Youth is wasted on the young," she mumbled.

Edward laughed at that.

"And what does that make you? I've read your file, you're younger than I am."

Despite their playful tone, Bella didn't respond. Feeling the need to get her talking again, Edward took another tact.

"What does an elevator have to do with Cary Grant anyway?"

"You're joking right?" Bella asked with wide eyes. "_An Affair to Remember_, Nicholas Ferrante goes to meet the love of his life at the top of the Empire State Building. He waits for her all day, staring at the elevators, but she never comes."

"That's depressing as hell," Edward said, unable to suppress his disgust. "Why would you like a movie like that?"

"It's one of the all time best romantic movies and it's not depressing, it's tragic. It's…it's wonderful."

"It's wonderful that she stands him up, that's sick, Bella."

"You haven't seen it, so you wouldn't understand. I'm not going to ruin the story by telling you the ending. You'll just have to see it for yourself."

"I think I'd rather have my hip flexor stretched," Edward said with a grin.

The reproachful eye roll Bella gave Edward was halted by a knock at her door.

"Come in, Alice," Bella began. "I've been waiting for you to show your face you coward. _Penguins make you look happy, my ass_," she added under her breath.

Edward snickered at this but returned to his work. A moment passed before he felt the wind at his back, signaling that Alice decided to come in and face the music.

A quick intake of breath from Bella brought Edward up short. Startled to find that he'd inadvertently hurt her, he began to apologize but saw that Bella was looking right past him. Her eyes were huge and her already pale face was bleached white. Edward whirled around to find a large man standing in her doorway. The light from the hall surrounded him, placing his face in shadow. The dark suit the man wore, coupled with his intimidating size, made him look more like a detective than a businessman.

Instinctively, Edward moved to protect Bella from the man's gawking view.

"This is a private patient room," he seethed. "Get out."

"I'm Agent Charlie Swan from the FDA. I'm here to see Miss Dwyer."

* * *

**I'm biting my nails on this one. Let me know what you think.**

**Thanks for reading.**


	11. Chapter 11

**A short update until next week's chapter -enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 9.5**

Edward turned back to Bella. Words weren't necessary; her blank expression was more than enough to demonstrate she didn't want the stranger in her room. That was good enough for Edward. He raised himself to his full height and moved threateningly toward the man, prepared to throw him through the door if necessary.

"You're upsetting my client," Edward growled. He placed a firm hand on the man's chest, intending to push him through the door. "I want you out of here, _now._"

Edward gave the man a shove but he didn't budge. The unnerving feeling sent a cold shiver down Edward's spine. Though the man was at least fifteen years his senior, his menacing stance made Edward wonder if it came to blows, if he could take him.

Without further encouragement, the man stepped back through the door.

"Edward," Bella said stiffly. "I'll see him."

Edward turned to examine the look on Bella's face. Her earlier shock was now masked behind a wall of resolve. In spite of the brave face, Bella looked quite a bit shaken, and because of it, Edward wasn't about to let this guy anywhere near her. That is, not before he talked to her first.

He turned back to the menacing figure with his jaw set determinedly.

"Wait in the visitors lobby. We'll send for you once her physical therapy is over."

Swan pursed his lips in what Edward perceived as ill-disguised annoyance. Then, after a final glance in Bella's direction, he gave a curt nod and left.

"Bella, who was that? What does he want?"

Bella swallowed hard and seemed to struggle for words.

"If he's from the FDA. He's obviously here about Isabella's research."

It was surprising to Edward that Bella would casually refer to her grandmother by her first name. What was even more curious was why a member of the FDA would want to talk to Bella in the first place.

"That doesn't mean you have to talk to him," Edward reasoned. "Right now you look like you've seen a ghost."

Edward folded his arms over his chest as he observed Bella more closely. Her controlled countenance reflected a false calm. He could read her; see how her body betrayed her. The pulse in her jugular was flying.

With pursed lips, Edward shook his head. In his mind, anyone who had this kind of effect on Bella shouldn't be allowed within a mile of her.

"He just looked familiar," Bella said, divining his thoughts, but her voice held no conviction. Her gaze moved from the closed door down to her hands.

Like her conviction, her voice was shaky and unsure. Edward watched her brow furrow as she concentrated on the correct pronunciation of each word.

After weeks of working with her, Edward was reasonably proficient at gauging Bella's reactions, physical and otherwise. He knew something was off. Her response to the man's presence didn't fit. She didn't look surprised—she looked _afraid_.

"Bella, you don't have to talk to him," Edward repeated. "I don't want anyone in here who might upset you."

"I'm fine, Edward, and I know I don't have to, but I want to. Isabella's work was important."

A flash of pain echoed in Bella's eyes at the mention of her grandmother. Edward could swear he felt it—as though it touched him as it did her. He wanted to comfort her, but didn't know if that was what she'd want. Instead, he stepped closer to her bedside and covered her legs. If he couldn't comfort her, he'd at least protect her by blocking her vulnerability from Swan's view.

Bella's mouth twitched slightly in thanks; then her eyes returned to that vacant stare, empty of all emotion. As if by a switch, Edward felt the invisible wall of protection form around her. He watched as the muscles of her jaw tensed. It was surprisingly similar to the way she readied herself for a therapy session—like she was preparing to do battle.

In spite of his earlier reservation, one of Edward's hands reached for Bella's shoulder. It was an offer of comfort, but Bella interrupted him. Her voice had an edge to it that Edward had never heard before.

"I appreciate you wanting to protect me, Edward, but I'm a grown woman. I'll see him, now." Bella hesitated, letting the silence between them lengthen. Finally, she quietly added one word, "Alone."

* * *

**Any thoughts on how it's going to go down with Agent Swan?**

**I'm curious to hear what you guys think. See you next week - FB**


	12. Chapter 12

******Thank you, readers. To my betas, I thank you for making this better.**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

_I'm going to be sick._

The shock of seeing Bella Dwyer hit Charlie like a battering ram; it was all he could do to make it down to the visitors lounge. The girl's wasted skin and muscles left Charlie working desperately to hold onto his breakfast. Her heavily bandaged head, hanging limply from her neck, had rooted him to his spot in morbid fascination. It had looked like it belonged to a twisted marionette rather than a human girl. Unable to turn away, he'd stood there like a lecher, his eyes darting around the therapist to get a better view. Now, struggling to take a full breath, it was a sight he wished he could scour from his mind.

A flood of memories rushed over Charlie, and though he was leaning against one of the lounge's walls for support, in his mind, he was back _there._ He felt himself tearing down a grassy hill toward a dark crop of trees echoed by a watery reserve.

Charlie gritted his teeth, fighting to keep the memories of that night at bay. He could not, and would not, allow himself to recall it. Drawing upon his waning reserves, he fought for the strength he needed to think around it, ordering himself to breathe, never relinquishing control to where his mind sought to go.

A voice inside him begged for a reprieve, begged for him to have chosen a different path, one that wouldn't have lead him here today. It was a fantasy, one a child would create while wishing away the monsters under his bed. Charlie couldn't wish them away; _his_ monsters were real. For twenty years he'd carried a badge in his breast pocket, letting the cold metal leach through the fabric and harden his heart. The badge was no longer there, but the memory of it reminded him that he didn't deal in futile wishes.

It had not been Charlie's first choice to visit Dwyer's granddaughter, but it had been the only one left. His lingering need to uncover what was going on at CGI overtook his better judgment. He should have known what seeing a badly injured girl would do to him. He should have waited until Miss Dwyer had been released from the hospital, but the moment he had traced the flowers being sent by Angela Webber to her hospital room, he went charging ahead, ignoring the consequences.

Charlie certainly didn't know Bella Dwyer, but when he looked into her deep, brown eyes, the only person he saw was his nineteen-year-old daughter, Chelsea.

_God, what if that had been her?_

A wave of nausea hit so hard, Charlie had to take a seat. Familiar tremors quickly followed, making him shake so badly that he had to grip the sides of the chair to keep from tumbling from his seat.

_Chelsea's fine._ Chelsea's _fine. Chelsea's fine,_ he chanted.

The chant did little to calm the shakes, but it helped him to settle his frantic mind. It was enough to remind him that he'd talked to Chelsea yesterday. They hadn't actually _talked,_ but he'd at least heard from her. She had left a voicemail saying she was spending Thanksgiving with her mother up in Cleveland. She'd wished him well and ended with a curt, _Bye, Dad._

_I could go up there_, he reasoned, as a bead of sweat trickled down his spine. It was only a four-hour drive. He could be in Cleveland in time for dinner and see Chelsea and—

He stopped.

Chelsea didn't want him there; she hadn't invited him.

"She's fine,"he argued aloud, still battling with his composure_._ She wasn't like that poor girl.

The need for distraction swelled like a tidal wave, and the only thing Charlie at hand to hold back the surge was the black leather notebook he kept in his jacket pocket. He opened it and quickly flipped through the last few pages of notes, tracing the logic of his thoughts. The reading of it soothed him, tempering his churning emotions. Every word passed his lips in silent speech as he translated his own code.

"10/28 – Mii project on indefinite hold per John Varner, CGI junior scientist

11/3 – No records found for anyone with the name Newton within CGI. Demetri needs a first name.

11/9 – FDA presented formal request to CGI for copy of court order to destroy Mii.

11/21 – Court order forwarded by CGI. Signature of requesting attorney is an Alistair Drake.

11/22 – Alistair Drake tracked to a private practice, LLC. Unable to reach him for questioning, multiple messages left via voicemail. Office is closed for Thanksgiving week.

11/23 – Plan visit with Dwyer's granddaughter, determine her level of project knowledge and the names of her grandmother's CGI associates_."_

With no other option save following Alistair to his home address, which Charlie hadn't entirely dismissed, he'd opted for finding Bella Dwyer. The finding part was simple enough; he'd made a call pretending to be a florist, verifying arrangements to a Bella Dwyer at Bethesda North, and within twenty minutes, he had the girl's room number.

The actual interview wasn't going to be that easy, however. Finding a wasted girl in her hospital bed, looking half-alive, had stopped Charlie's heart.

Once more, he swallowed down the bile threatening to present itself all over his trousers by focusing on the present. Ever since his talk with Varner and the stonewalling he'd encountered with the CGI management, Charlie had known something wasn't right. No company would have invested millions in a promising research program and not have fought tooth-and-nail to keep the program alive. Iron-clad court order or not, CGI's lawyers should have had a legal battle tied up in the courts for years. In the interim, CGI could have been working to finish the research, searching for the donor or, at the very least, locating the donor's next of kin. Instead, they terminated the project within a week of Dwyer's death. It didn't make a lick of sense.

"She'll see you," a sharp voice called from the edge of the waiting area.

Charlie stood, on legs as stiff as stilts, and made his way to the mouth of the hall. He wasn't sure if the girl could help him or not, but until something else loosened up, she was his only option.

The preppy boy from her room stepped in front of Charlie, blocking his progress. Anxiety or not, it took a significant amount of restraint to keep Charlie from knocking his fist through the boy's jaw.

"I assume since you're here, you know she's lost her grandmother," the kid spat.

Charlie answered with a curt nod, meeting the kid's stare head on.

"She's willing to talk to you, but _don't_ upset her. She's not in any shape for it, physically _or_ emotionally. Do anything to hurt her, and I'll personally take pleasure in throwing you out on your ass."

_I'd like to see you try, _Charlie thought, but aside from a cold stare, he didn't otherwise react.

Charlie sized up the build of the young man before him, assessing weak spots, planning his targets for attack. It didn't sit well with him to be ordered around by some candy-ass in a PARKSIDE REHABILITATION polo. He could take him down with ease. It wasn't about muscle; it was about knowing where and how to strike. Though it would be satisfying to ram the boy's sharp tongue down his throat, it would take Charlie away from what he wanted.

He took a deliberate step toward the boy, then edged around him, pushing his temptation aside.

xxxXXXxxx

Bella Dwyer's hospital room felt as suffocating as it had the first time Charlie had entered it. He would have sworn that the room was a hundred times hotter than it had been out in the hall. The only visible contributors to the stifling sensation were the heating packs left by the therapist. Hot and damp as they might have been, they couldn't account for the claustrophobic tightening in Charlie's chest. The enclosed feeling, clawing the air from his lungs, could only be attributed to the sickly girl lying in the room's solitary bed.

_Girl,_ Charlie repeated as a means of distraction.

It was such an inaccurate description of the figure lying in the bed. _Ghost_ would have been a hell of a lot better. The white bandages wrapped around Bella Dwyer's head didn't provide her much shelter, nor did the clothing or blankets that covered her skeleton-like frame. Her hair looked as if it had been ruthlessly shorn off, adding to her appearance of being something out of a horror flick.

The little that remained of her hair was brown. Charlie could see that from the fuzzy tufts that popped through the bandages near the crown. It stood out in stark contrast to the white netting. It didn't look like a turban or even the wrappings of an Egyptian mummy, rather it merely accentuated the wraithlike image of a woman worn down by the ravages of time and illness.

Her skin gave the impression of translucent tape that wrapped over bone. The wires and tubes flowing in and out of her didn't do much to improve this impression. _Something_ was truly wrong with this girl. Were it not for her brown eyebrows and lashes, she could have passed for an albino. To Charlie, Bella Dwyer looked as if she'd been in that hospital bed for months or years, rather than five weeks.

He stared, visually dissecting her features with a toothcomb, surprised by how he could distance himself from the anxiety that had crippled him moments before. The one thing he'd always relied on, was his single-minded focus for the job.

A set of intense, brown, eyes stared up at him as he stared back. Neither of them spoke. Charlie would have guessed that she was afraid of him, the way her eyes flitted over him, but as the silence wore on, her expression changed. Her eyes grew cold and hard, and Charlie had to steel himself against a shiver that ran down his spine. Irrationally, he wondered if the girl could read his thoughts, calling him out on his morbid gawking. Before he could call a single question to mind, the Dwyer girl spoke through pursed lips.

"How can I help you?"

Her tongue was as sharp as the fire flashing behind her eyes, and Charlie felt an unnerving desire to shrink back in response. The echo of it rolled over his skin, flattening his chest … compressing the air in his lungs. Wide eyes stared back at him. For a moment, they weren't the dark brown of Bella Dwyer's, however, but the ones trapped in Charlie's memory—a pale, perfect blue. His mind traveled back in time, recreating a plump mouth, softly curved by youth and innocence. It lay open in a silent cry, frozen for all of time.

Charlie blinked, and the image before him fluttered between the past and present, dragging his racing heart with it. In the span of a breath, he stood drenched in his own cold sweat. It trickled down his back and pooled in the curve where his shirt lay tucked beneath his belt. Lights flashed like fireworks around him.

It was coming.

_Son of a bitch!_ he screamed within the silence of his mind. _Not now!_

An attack, like the ones he'd experienced in his final months with the CIA, was stalking him. It felt like a lion racing to pounce upon its frightened prey. Charlie's heart raced.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs, to remind him of where his steel badge used to sit. The memory of the heavy metal, resting in the inside the pocket of his shirt, was what drove him now. He had to get it back. He'd do anything.

With a hold on his composure no stronger than fingernails against a cliff face, Charlie opened his mouth to speak.

"I'm sorry to hear about your grandmother."

His throat was dry, and his voice rasped against the words, but he'd managed it all the same. There was no lead-in, no prep; he just ran full steam ahead with the first rational thought to enter his mind. It made him feel like a rookie, allowing the situation to control him instead of _him_ being the one in control.

All of his training melted like warm piss on snow when he felt like this, and he hated himself for it. His palms were coated with sweat, making him worry he'd drop his leather notepad. His fingers tightened around it in a death grip to prevent that from happening. If he had to bend down to retrieve it, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get back up.

Through it all, the girl before him betrayed no emotion; she didn't seem to acknowledge his words. The only visible display was a slow swallow and a slight tightening of her jaw. She didn't even break eye contact.

Charlie tried to puzzle her out, feeling grateful for the reprieve that enabled him to tighten the reigns on his control.

He took a step into the room and spoke again, deciding he needed to explain his presence in order to get some answers.

"I've come here to ask you some questions about your grandmother's research."

"Why?" the girl immediately countered.

Her voice was quiet but quite composed.

_Where is her emotion? _Charlie wondered, scrutinizing the pale face that appeared so mismatched with the fire in her brown eyes.

The girl had just lost her grandmother, and yet she sat there still as a stone.

Charlie had been wrong. He'd been thinking it was too soon after the accident to get the girl to talk. That she'd be too mired in grief and despair to be of any value to him. This girl seemed far too controlled for that to be the case. Perhaps she was in denial.

Even if Charlie couldn't immediately decipher her behavior, he recognized a familiar shrewdness in the girl's stare. Bella Dwyer was as sharp as her grandmother had been; her blunt question only served to confirm it. Why _would _someone from the FDA come to visit her after her accident?

The question, though fair, wasn't one he planned on answering. They were going to follow his agenda, not hers.

"Can you tell me what you know about your grandmother's research?"

There was a slight movement in the girl's jaw, a tensing or perhaps a movement jutting it slightly forward.

_What _is_ that, _Charlie wondered._ Anger? Defiance?_

"I know she was working on a cure for cancer."

This was obviously true, but the girl's words were so clipped and carefully phrased that Charlie felt she was concealing something. He thought back to his one and only meeting with Isabella Dwyer, trying to remember if he'd unintentionally done something to piss her off. Perhaps he had. If Isabella had told her granddaughter, then she might have reason to distrust him.

_No,_ Charlie reasoned. Dwyer was professional to a fault. The old bird had obviously been around the block enough times not to let her feathers get riled easily.

_Maybe I intimidate her?_

Charlie's size and appearance were certainly enough to account for that. In the past, he'd never had any qualms about using his physicality to get answers. It had served him well, many times over, but he doubted it was going to work in this case. He needed a different tack, and the realization brought his simmering anxiety back to a full boil. The leather notebook creaked beneath his straining grip as he forced himself to open a crack in his shield. He hoped that by letting some of his emotion seep out, the girl would let him in.

"I have a daughter about your age," Charlie began as images of a pale white Chelsea flashed mercilessly through his mind. "She's a little younger than you are, but not by much." Charlie swallowed hard and, for the first time, looked away from Bella and down at his hands. "I don't know how she'd manage if she had to survive in your situation. I think you're very brave."

For a moment, Charlie lost himself in thoughts of Chelsea lying in Bella's position. A wracking pain hit him like a knife to the chest. He needed to shut those thoughts down or, without a doubt, he'd lose his already precarious emotional control.

"I'm not brave," Bella said. Her voice was still quiet but somehow piercing. Charlie though he heard a distinct edge denoting bitterness.

Charlie eyes snapped back to Bella's only to find her staring down at the starched white bedclothes covering her lap. Her face had softened, but she didn't seem to want to look him in the eye.

_What is it with this girl? _he thought, shaking his head. _She's lost her grandmother. She's as bad off as any girl could get, and yet she can't accept one measly compliment? She's either extremely edgy or humble as hell. _

Neither attribute seemed to fit the woman whose initial stare had had sweat running down his spine.

"I thought your grandmother was a very commanding woman. I respected that."

Charlie watched a smirk spread across the girl's face. Despite her battered body, it almost made her look pretty. Sensing the pride Bella felt for her grandmother, Charlie continued down that path, hoping it would loosen her up.

xxxXXXxxx

Edward paced the waiting room, ripping his hands through his hair.

_Why did she send me away?_

Bella had dismissed him, and it stung. The ice in her voice doused whatever warmth he'd felt when they worked together. She made him feel like a stranger.

But he wasn't a stranger to her, and that fact served to frustrate him even more. He'd worked so damn hard to build up her trust, only to have her throw it back in his face. Every ounce of progress he'd made, clawing his way though her defenses, was slipping through his fingers, and it centered on one very unwelcome visitor.

He didn't like the man—or his stony glare—but Bella hadn't given him the chance to help her, let alone to protect her from Swan. He'd been relegated to the sideline, forced to sit and wait for her to call. It felt like waiting for the result of his board exams. Only this time, the feeling of dread had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the girl entrusted to his care.

Without even realizing he was moving, Edward's legs carried him back to Bella's door. Despite her earlier dismissal, he felt compelled to be nearby if she needed him. Edward listened as a low murmur of voices echoed softly from behind her door.

_She's handling it just like she said she would, _he argued, feeling disgusted with himself_. She doesn't need you hanging around._

The truth hurt, and it would be some time before Edward could replace it with the emotion lurking just below it—pride.

xxxXXXxxx

"Dr. Dwyer seemed very dedicated to her work."

"She was," Bella answered.

Her face betrayed nothing, her tone dispassionate, almost to the point of sounding bitter. God, getting answers out of the girl was like pulling teeth.

_Was she angry at Isabella for not spending enough time with her?_ Charlie puzzled, grasping to make sense of Bella's response.

The question wriggled at him, but not as much as Bella's calm exterior. The more reserved she became, the more Charlie lost focus on his training. He needed to put all his anxiety and frustration aside and focus on getting some information out of this visit.

"It seems a shame to see all of her hard work come to an end," Charlie baited.

He pulled a copy of the court order from his jacket pocket and unfolded it slowly, glancing at it for a moment, and then read the docket number aloud for effect. Moving closer to her bedside, he held the pages out for Bella to see.

She didn't move, but Charlie could see her eyes straining to read the words printed upon the page. He watched her eyes widen and took careful note of her reaction. When her eyes finally lifted from the page, Charlie was no closer to deciphering the expression covering her face.

"It's true," Charlie confirmed. "They shut down the project and destroyed all of the human biological material just a few days after your grandmother died."

Bella tried to purse her lips, but Charlie saw her lip quiver before she could stop it. The news about the project obviously upset her, though she refused to openly react to it.

_Why?_

The mounting unanswered questions frustrated Charlie to no end.

"There was a clause in the donor's informed consent form," he continued. "It stated that if your grandmother left the program, all of the donated material was to be destroyed."

"Did they do it?"

Bella's question came out in a rush, snapping her façade of calm control like a wishbone.

"Yes," Charlie answered, positioning a second document before the young Miss Dwyer's eyes.

She read silently for a moment then shut her eyes and breathed deeply.

_Is she sad, angry, upset?_ _Open your eyes and let me see it! _Charlie fumed.

This was getting him nowhere. Again, he needed change his approach.

"What I have trouble understanding, Miss Dwyer, is why your grandmother's employer would allow her research to be destroyed without a long and embattled court fight."

"Would they have won?" Bella shot back.

Her answer torpedoed the theory that she had no knowledge of the project beforehand.

_What did she know?_

"Not likely," Charlie replied with an attempt at a disinterested shrug, "but it would have bought them some time to find a new Clinical Investigator and request a new release form from either the donor or their next of kin."

"Didn't they try that first?"

Charlie furrowed his brow. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Like you said, it doesn't make sense for them to give up without at least trying to find the donor first. Perhaps they tried and the donor said no. Perhaps they had no other option but to destroy the donated material."

_Why is she defending CGI'S actions? This was her grandmother's life's work._

"What do you do for a living, Miss Dwyer? Are you a lawyer?"

The girl smirked, laughing humorlessly.

"No, I'm not a lawyer. I'm a student working on my PhD at Washington State."

"In what?"

"Biomedical engineering."

"Following in your grandmother's footsteps?"

"No, not exactly. Isabella did a lot of good things, but her life revolved around her work. I won't make the same mistakes she did."

Charlie watched the girl's eyes trace the room, landing on the various colored pictures that adorned it. They came to a stop when they rested on a man's leather jacket propped on a chair in the corner.

"I think there's more to life than what you can find in a lab."

Bella let out a heavy breath, then they both fell silent. She seemed lost in her thoughts while Charlie was assaulted by another image of Chelsea lying in her place.

_Did Chelsea think that of me? Married more to my job than to her mother? Devoted to the badge instead of my daughter?_

He shook his head trying to clear his thoughts.

"I have just one more question for you, Miss Dwyer."

xxxXXXxxx

Edward rubbed a hand back and forth across his forehead. It wasn't just the look of the man he didn't like; it ran deeper than that. Swan carried himself in a manner suggesting he held authority over all the everyday Joes around him.

_ What would he want with Bella?_

That was the crux of it. Bella said he was here because of Isabella's research, her grandmother who had worked for CGI. Edward pulled his cell from his pocket; the tones of his autodial were ringing in his ear before he even decided what to say.

The phone went straight to voicemail, relaying his aunt's cheery sentiment, while mocking his own.

"Aunt Esme…it's Edward. I need you to call me when you get this message. It's about Isabella Dwyer. There's a man from the FDA poking around Bethesda, and I need to understand why."

Edward was at the far end of the hallway pacing as he spoke. He turned back in the direction he came only to find Bella's physician striding purposefully toward her door. He was about to call out but stopped, as he realized he still had his phone pressed to his ear.

"I gotta go Aunt Esme, call me soon."

He ended the call and shouted to stop the man pushing on Bella's door. It was futile, as he was distractedly staring at a file in his hands, oblivious to the world around him.

"Wait … Dr. Newton!"

xxxXXXxx

"What question is that, Agent Swan?" Bella asked, sounding equally terse and thankful that they were nearing the end of Charlie's questions.

"I'd like to find some of your grandmother's associate scientists. Do you happen to know anyone by the name of Dr. Newton?"

Charlie watched as the girl's pallor went from pale to stark white. Her eyes widened, and Charlie felt the cool breeze of a door opening on the back of his neck.

* * *

**Yeah, Charlie ... he has his own backstory, but we'll get to that later.**

******Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think. - FB**


	13. Chapter 13

******Thank you, readers, and a huge thank you to my betas for helping me make this better. **

******This is where it starts to get interesting...**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

"Alice, I told you getting mixed up in this thing was a huge mistake."

A wave of frustration and fear hit Jasper as he rubbed his hands over his face and scratched the short whiskers of his five o'clock shadow.

"Damn it!" he roared, standing abruptly and kicking back the kitchen chair.

"Jasper, calm down!" Alice hissed. "Cyndi's asleep, and waking her up is not going to help matters. We have to act rationally."

The strain in her voice didn't escape Jasper's notice, underscoring the difference between her thoughts and words.

"Michael Newton is right," Jasper fumed, ignoring his wife's plea. "Go public. Take the hit for undergoing a human trial without FDA approval, and for God's sake, do it before this Swan asshole does it first. Coming clean with public approval will lessen the consequences for Isabella, for you, and everyone else involved."

"_Bella's_ not ready," Alice shot back, making Jasper want to strangle her.

She was so damn focused on this project, on Isabella, whom she now refused to refer to as anything but Bella. It made Jasper want to put his fist through the wall.

"She's not ready physically, and not emotionally, either. She couldn't cope with being hounded by the press or being stared at like some freak. It will happen, but she needs time. She needs to get well first, Jasper."

"What about what _you_ need, Alice? What about your career?"

"We've been over this a thousand times. I didn't agree to be part of this project to further my career. I joined the project because I believed—_believe _in Isabella's work. She's proven that medical science is ready to take this leap, but there's a price to pay, and it's the impact on her humanity. Bella still doesn't see that the biggest challenge is yet to come—I do, and I can help her. Regardless of the medical success, the project will fail if Bella cannot transition back into society."

Alice reached out and grabbed Jasper's clenched fist as she spoke.

"Swan's sudden appearance gave everyone a scare. Believe me, Jasper, I know this, but I won't abandon Bella, and I won't push her to do something when she's not ready. It is my job as her doctor to put her care first."

"_First_, Alice?" Jasper roared. "Before your child, your husband, your livelihood? What if you go to jail?"

Jasper shook of Alice's hold and began raking his hands through his hair.

"Alice," he pled, taking a deep breath then sinking down to his knees before her. He met her eye to eye, imploring her to see the truth in his words. "Don't you see how serious this is? _It's fraud._"

Alice shut her eyes, to avoid seeing the pain and worry in his. She was right: they'd had this argument many times before, and even though she didn't say the words, he already knew what she was thinking, what she was hoping.

_It won't come to that._

"Bella has her reasons for keeping the procedure out of the public eye," she said quietly. "I understand them and I accept them, Jasper, but that acceptance doesn't mean I love you or Cyndi any less." Alice's voice grew stronger as she took his worried face in her hands. "I know that I'm walking a thin line, but I'm asking you help me walk it. _Please,_ Jasper," she implored in a mixture of prayer and pain, "help me protect her."

Jasper reached for Alice, pulling her by the waist to the edge of her seat. He buried his face in the soft, gray sweater covering her belly. Closing his eyes, he clutched her tightly, scared to death of letting her go. He shook his head and banged it a few times against the forgiving expanse of fabric and flesh. He wanted to knock the sense out of him or back into her, but either way, one look in his wife's beautiful blue eyes and he was done for.

_Shit._

He let out a groan as the tips of Alice's fingernails raked through the hair at the back of his head.

"Tell me again what the agent said."

His words were mumbled into her sweater, but she'd heard him well enough.

"Thank you," she whispered, tugging on his hair and forcing his eyes up to meet hers.

"I'm too scared and pissed off to say you're welcome. I don't want you mixed up in this, but I can tell when your stubborn mind is made up. I love you, Alice," he said with a hard swallow, "and I won't abandon you, either. Tell me what you know, and I'll see what I can find out."

**xxxXXXxxx**

"I'll be back in a minute."

Bella was silent for a moment then belatedly mumbled her assent. Her answer went unheard; Edward was already gone. She paid little attention to her surroundings, staring through unseeing eyes at the utensil clip that Edward had strapped to her hand a moment earlier. The spoon's shining surface distorted her visage. She grimaced, symbolic as it was to both her appearance and her emotions. The implement lay in her limp hand, as useless as a comb with no teeth.

Bella looked away disgustedly; she sure as hell wasn't going to be the one lifting it.

The threads of despair began to tighten around her neck, and Bella forced herself to breathe through it—unwilling to let herself go fall back into dark thoughts.

In the weeks following her surgery, Bella's hopes would inflate only to burst at the slightest touch. Every day she spent trapped in this useless body, a little more of her slipped away, along with her hopes of getting better.

When the weight of her fear came crashing down, Bella couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't even breathe around it. In those moments, she wondered what she'd do if she was offered a viable way out.

Bella would have liked to believe that she was too stubborn to give up—too stubborn to die—but she was no longer sure that was the truth. It was a constant battle of wills: one commanding her to live, one begging for permission to die.

In those dark moments, with her heart laden with despair, Bella closed her eyes and sought refuge in her faith. Though dusty from disuse, and flattened by her rationalizations, it lay there waiting for her return. It had not abandoned her. For only divine intervention could have brought someone like Alice Whitlock into her life. She buoyed her, helping Bella to surface from beneath the dark water long enough to realize she wasn't alone.

Every day Alice came and sat with Bella. She listened, not judging, not offering platitudes. She allowed Bella to put a voice to her fear, beyond the one screaming inside her head. Together, they found a foothold in which Bella could reach beyond her meager existence. Alice became her cornerstone, without which Bella would have faded to nothing more than breath and dust.

As Bella cleaved to her scant grasp on hope, Alice reached out again and again to help her. She had brought two people into Bella's shallow world that would never pity her, who could find this hollow person she'd become worth knowing, worth touching, worth healing.

With her precocious little smile, Cyndi Whitlock made it impossible for Bella to allow her despair to swallow her whole. She was a whirlwind of energy, reminding Bella that there was a world out there beyond the misery of her hospital bed. And although she was trapped within this body, she was not trapped within her mind. She could still think and speak and learn.

That innocent little girl helped Bella to see the world through a different lens. Through Cyndi's enthusiasm for everything from strawberry milk to Christmas, Bella discovered that there were always new things to learn, new experiences to gain, and only by giving up would Bella truly fail.

Glancing around the room, Bella saw the multitude of pictures and cards decorated by Cyndi's small hand. Cyndi saw the world in color, as a place of endless possibility, the way only a young child could. Hadn't Bella been given the same chance? Didn't she have the same opportunity to see the world through bright new eyes? Looking down at the colorful, new, flannel pajamas she was wearing brought a hint of a smile to Bella's face.

_Yes_, she did.

Cyndi's visits brightened her days, but it was the earnest look on Edward Mason's youthful face that implored Bella not to give up. He was giving her all of his time and effort, and she would never again dismiss that sacrifice.

Though Edward had tried to hide it, Bella had seen the look of hurt and betrayal on his face when she'd ordered him from her hospital room. Charlie Swan had just barged in, sending her into panic mode. She needed to walk a razor-thin wire between being Bella and Isabella. That would have been impossible to do in Edward's presence, so she'd asked him to go. She hated seeing the hurt on his face and hated herself even more for being the one who put it there. The few moments of peace she'd found since she woke from her surgery had been with Edward. He'd joked with her, forced her to laugh at herself—not at her predicament. With him, Bella almost felt human again.

The guilt of how she'd repaid his kindness by dismissing weighted heavily on her. For days afterward, Bella berated herself for making him feel like she'd never needed him in the first place.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Edward was becoming as vital to Bella as oxygen. The wounded look in his eyes reminded her that, even as this shell of a woman, she had found a friend.

Edward was more than her friend, though; he was someone who truly cared. He'd barged back into her room showing her that no one, including Charlie Swan, or even Bella herself, would keep him from looking out for her. At that moment, Bella realized her recovery meant as much to him as it did to her, and for that reason alone, she couldn't give up.

Once more, Bella glanced down at the spoon strapped to her wrist. With anticipation akin to a seven-year-old with a new bike, Edward had informed Bella of his plan to help her feed herself today. Bella had smiled half-heartedly, knowing it would be downright sinful to dampen his enthusiasm, especially when it was for her benefit. Silently, Bella couldn't help but think the boy had lost his mind. She could no sooner feed herself now, than bend over to clip her toenails before her surgery.

"Edward Mason is a glutton for punishment," Bella said with loud sigh and a resigned shake of her head.

"I'm not a glutton," Edward retorted petulantly as he backed into Bella's room carrying a cafeteria tray. He paused, thinking. "Okay, I am, but only when I eat Big Mac's."  
He cast a wistful glance toward the ceiling. "I could inhale those things."

"I don't understand you," Bella reproved, though with a poor attempt at hiding her amusement. "Obviously, you're pretty healthy, but you long for food that's full of fat and salt?"

"Healthy, huh?" he teased. "It's that obvious is it?" Edward grinned as he set the tray down. He lifted his right arm and flexed, showing off the well-defined bicep beneath his cotton shirt.

Bella rolled her eyes at him, but was unable to conceal a blush. "You're such a babe."

Edward did a double-take, startled by Bella's words. His eyes widened, and he nervously smoothed over imaginary wrinkles in his shirt as he searched for words. Bella, realizing how he'd interpreted what she'd said, fumbled to correct herself.

"I-I didn't mean it like that," she stuttered. "I meant babe, like a babe in arms, an infant, a young child."

Edward finally lifted his eyes to meet hers.

"Oh," he said, shrugging stiffly. "Well, that's good." he added absently, though still somewhat flustered.

Needing something to deflect the conversation away from her mistake, Bella looked over the cafeteria tray, noting a small box of cereal and a carton of milk.

"Cereal? You're joking right?"

Edward's brow furrowed in confusion before he snapped out of his daydream and saw the tray before him. His face brightened considerably until he was full on grinning at her. Bella despised_ that_ smile. It usually preceded some ridiculous activity intended to get her to use one of her dormant muscle groups.

"Nope, cereal it is." Edward confirmed, returning to his annoyingly happy mood. "Don't worry, I'm not interested in you using your arms—I'll help you with that. I want you to try to move your neck."

Bella moaned at the realization of his plan. He wanted her to challenge herself and reach for the spoon using the muscles in her neck.

She sighed, looking down at the plastic bib covering her newest set of flannel pajamas.

"I'm going to be wearing it."

"No, you won't. Don't I always protect you, even from yourself?"

Edward tilted his head slightly in silent challenge. The insinuation wasn't lost.

Charlie Swan's visit had scared the hell out of her. When Edward barged into the room, Bella barely had the sense to think straight. Edward had obviously caught a glimpse of the panic on her face and abruptly tossed Swan out of her room. The whole time that Edward was shouting at Swan for upsetting his patient, Bella was trying to get herself back in check.

It had been a damn close call, but Michael had managed to escape Bella's room that day without revealing his identity. Bella had introduced Michael as "my doctor" and Charlie Swan as "an agent from the FDA". Michael, nearly as white as Bella's bed sheets, quickly acknowledged the agent then excused himself, saying he'd come back later to go over Bella's latest test results.

The relief was short-lived. When Alice got to Bella's room later that night, she told Bella that Michael and Jasper wanted them to go public immediately. Alice, on the other hand, wanted to stick to the original plan. She thought Bella needed time to heal before announcing the program publicly. Carlisle and Esme, though obviously concerned, ultimately deferred to Bella's wishes to wait, as she was the one impacted the most.

It wasn't that Bella didn't want to go public; she did. At the very least, it would keep her from having to lie. She hated lying to Edward, to Angela, even to Charlie Swan; but deep down, she knew she wasn't ready. She needed more time before she could face the stress of public and government scrutiny. With Alice and the Cullen's on her side, Bella had decided the best thing for right now was to stick to the original timeline.

Of course, steps had been taken to avoid another close call, and ironically, Edward had instituted a number of them. Bella changed hospital rooms, and the staff at Bethesda was now under strict orders not to allow anyone into Bella's room without prior approval from Alice Whitlock.

As for the rest of the members of the project, Alistair laid low. He avoided Swan by closing his practice and giving his sole employee, an administrative assistant, paid time off for the rest of the year. John Varner, the junior scientist who had spoken to Swan at CGI, was assigned to a project managed by CGI's sister company in Beaufort, North Carolina. Finally, to ensure their connection wasn't discovered, Carlisle and Esme had agreed to refrain from visiting Bella in her hospital room. The team had made every effort to give Bella time to recover or, at the very least, more time to prepare.

That had been the plan all along. Bella would undergo the procedure, recover and return to the CGI board within one year to decide the future of the program. With Charlie Swan snooping around, Bella wasn't sure she'd have an entire year to prepare, but for now, she was going to take all the time she could get.

Ultimately, whenever she wouldmeet with the board, they'd review Bella's experiences as the test subject. Then they'd collectively decide whether to continue and announce their findings to the public, or officially terminate. Bella shut her eyes, grateful for the fact that she didn't have to make _that_ decision any time soon.

"Hey," Edward called softly. "We'll just try. If it doesn't work, we'll try something else."

Bella opened her eyes to see Edward standing at her bedside with a worried expression spreading across his face. He lifted her hand and squeezed her fingers gently.

"Still with me?"

"Y-yeah," she choked. "I'm with you, Edward."

"Atta girl." He smiled.

Edward went back to the foot of Bella's bed and began preparing the bowl of cereal.

"Wouldn't oatmeal have been a better choice?" she asked tiredly. "At least that's thick enough to stay on the spoon when I bump it around and make fish faces at it."

Edward laughed, making Bella laugh in return. It felt good to have their easygoing rapport back.

"Yeah, I guess oatmeal would have been a better choice, but I didn't know what you liked so I went with the old stand-by."

"Cheerios?"

"Oh, not just any Cheerios, my friend. These are Honey Nut Cheerios, the mac-daddy of them all."

"The what?" Bella asked perplexed.

"The mac-daddy, the pimp-meister, the Superfly Snuka."

Now Bella really laughed. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Can you say that again in English?"

"You're joking, right? Jimmy Snuka was the best of all time. He was my WWF WrestleMania hero when I was, like, six. It means something's the best of the best."

"Oh," Bella said lamely. She had been knee deep in cellular research when Edward was watching wrestling shows. He _was_ a babe in arms.

_And I'm the wolf in sheep's clothing who ate Grandma._

"What big eyes you have, Grandma," Bella mumbled under her breath.

"Huh?" Edward asked as he broke the seal on the cereal box.

"Never mind."

"So, you weren't a wrestling fan as a kid?"

Bella scrunched her nose in distaste.

"I guess it's a boy thing," Edward replied with an unaffected shrug, as he focused on arranging her morning torture. "Anyway, we're all set," he added with another eager smile that made Bella groan. "I'm going to sit on the bed and help you get the spoon near your mouth. Just give it a try—it will be fine, I promise."

"Easy for you to say," Bella challenged, raising an imperious brow. "You won't be the one with milk dripping down your chin."

"And ruin your pretty PJ's? Not a chance."

"Watch it," Bella said dryly. Even though her voice had changed with the surgery, she found she could still mimic the commanding tone she'd often used in the lab.

"Yes, ma'am." Edward started, clearly taken-a-back by her tone.

"I'm sorry," she sighed. "I didn't mean to be—"

"Don't worry about it," Edward said, waving her off.

"No, it was rude. You're only trying to help me. It's just sometimes I swear Alice is trying to get back at me for something when she brings me these stupid pajamas."

Bella looked down at the purple tie-dyed sleep shirt she was wearing. As if the color wasn't obnoxious enough, the cosmic misery was multiplied by the smiling peace signs dotting the fabric.

"I don't think they're stupid. They're kind of cute," Edward said with a shrug. "At least they're not the plain old hospital gowns."

"I guess. I have to admit, I'm glad these don't have as much air conditioning in the back."

"That's true," Edward snorted.

A pang of longing ran through Bella as she imagined the comfort of her home, her favorite white, cotton nightgown and a steaming cup of Earl Grey.

"I honestly don't know a thing about girl pajamas, but if you tell me what you want, I could probably try to find some for you."

Bella smiled. "That's very sweet of you, Edward, but I don't think Cyndi would be too happy if I quit wearing the ones she picked out."

"Aaahhh, Cyndi. She does seem to be used to getting her own way, doesn't she?"

Bella bit her lip to hold back her grin. "You could say that."

Edward glanced around Bella's hospital room. "It looks as though she left a few new decorations for your room."

"Yeah, she and Alice were here last night. She was coloring on the floor at my bedside, working frantically to get that one with the presents on it done before she left. I think she was giving hints to her mom that Santa needed to bring a _lot_ of presents this year."

Edward laughed and lifted the bowl from Bella's tray. He walked slowly over to the right side of her bed and kicked out the visitor's chair so he'd have more room to sit beside Bella.

"It's not hard to imagine her needing a lot of time on Santa's kn— Wh-a! _Shit!_"

Bella's head snapped left, startled by Edward's sudden outburst. He flailed, trying to right himself while balancing the cereal bowl, but it was no good. Bella watched in horror as Edward's feet went out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor like an upturned apple cart. Milk and cheerios went flying across the room, spreading themselves over every object and surface in sight.

"Damnit, what the hell?"

Edward propped his sodden elbow on Bella's bed, trying with little success to stand. His feet slipped out from underneath him, unable to find purchase on the slick, milk-stained floor. He attempted to heave himself upright but slipped again, this time landing on his ass before bouncing like a rubber ball and smacking his head on the floor.

Try as she might, Bella could not help the snort that escaped her mouth. She didn't want to laugh but it burst from her with the full force of a popped balloon. Edward was covered in milk from head to toe. Droplets of white fell from his hair and the tip of his nose. His cheek had a few Cheerios stuck to the surface like candy on a gingerbread cookie. Knowing he wasn't seriously hurt, Bella couldn't have contained have contained her laughter if she tried.

Once again, Edward raised himself to a sitting position. The look of disgruntled frustration on his face sent Bella into another round of laughter as tears streamed down her cheeks. Edward looked ready to give her hell, when his angry face fell, morphing into a look of complete shock.

_"Bella!"_

The urgency of Edward's outburst sobered Bella quickly. Her face went from amusement to concern in a flash. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, frantic with worry that he really had hurt himself.

"_Your hand!"_ he shouted.

Bella jerked back, realizing her hand had been covering her mouth in an attempt to disguise her laughter. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open at the sight.

Her hand was in front of her face. She had _moved _her hand.

"Oh my God," she cried.

Edward was on her bed in an instant as the two of them stared blankly at the appendage suspended in air before them.

"Move it again," he ordered.

Slowly, carefully, Bella pulled her hand further from her face, amazed that she could command the action and have her body obey. Without further prompting, Bella rotated her hand so that she could see the back of it. Scrawny, bony white knuckles faced her for the first time. A tear dripped down her cheek, and she looked up to meet Edward's stunned face. Those beautiful dark green eyes were shining with happiness, and before Bella knew, it she was in his arms. His solid chest pressed against her cheek.

"You did it, Bella," he breathed into her hair. "You did it," he repeated, stroking her back. "I knew you could. I knew someday you _would_."

Tear after tear rolled down Bella's cheeks as she took comfort from Edward's arms. With only the slightest hesitation to respond, Bella lifted her shaking right arm and wrapped it around Edward's back, her fingers feeling the rough cloth of his shirt. After months of fearing she'd never again move of her own volition, she wept openly, unable to contain her exhaustion or her relief.

Edward soothed her with words of praise and encouragement, while gently stroking her back. When her tears were finally exhausted, Bella released a shuddering breath then sunk deeper into Edward's embrace. She was so grateful for this moment, and at the same time, it made her anxious, almost fearful, of what it meant. For even if Bella couldn't bring herself to admit it, somewhere deep down, she acknowledged that the comfort of Edward Mason's arms was indeed a very nice place to be.

* * *

**A nice place indeed. **

**A teaser for Chapter 12 will be posted this week on twi-fic central. You can see the post on fic central's website by searching for fic central on google.**

**Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think.**

**-FB**


End file.
